LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 



Shelf-/-/' 



UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 




>^r^ 



^^^;^^^^ 



PERSONAL TRAITS OF 



B 



A 



RITISH AUTHORS 



Byron-Shelley— Moore-Rogers 
Keats-Southey— Landor 



EDITED BY 



V 

EDWARD T. MASON 



WITH PORTRAITS^* 



\m 22 1885 

^ 16 2 Oi. /^ 



NEW YORK 

CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 

1885 



h3 



3 



Copyright, 1884, by 
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 



TROWS 

PRmriNG VND BOOKBINDING COMPANY; 

NEW YORK. 



M. Y. AND L. H. Y. 

THESE VOLUMES ARE GRATEFULLY INSCRIBED. 



' Let those who are in favour with their stars, 
Of publick honour and proud titles boast, 
Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars, 
Unlook'd for joy in that I honour most. 
Great princes' favourites their fair leaves spread 
But as the marigold at the sun's eye, 
And in themselves their pride lies buried. 
For at a frown they in their glory die. 
The painful warrior famoused for fight, 
After a thousand victories, once foiled, 
Is from the book of honour razed quite, 
And all the rest forgot for which he toil'd ; 
Then happy I, that love and am belov'd, 
Where I may not remove, nor be remov'd." 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

Preface, . . . vii 

Chronology, i 

Lord Byron, 3 

Percy Bysshe Shelley, ,...,,. 73 

Thomas Moore, 141 

Samuel Rogers, 167 

John Keats, 193 

Robert Southey, . . . . . . . , 209 

Walter Savage Landor, 249 

List of Authorities, . . . . „ . . 305 



PREFACE. 



NEARLY one hundred years ago, while revolu- 
tion was teaching its stern lessons in France, 
English literature shook off the torpor in which it 
had lain so long, and awoke to a new life, a life of 
power and of beauty. To that great awakening may 
be traced everything of real moment and significance 
which has since distinguished the literature of Eng- 
land. Now the forces of that time seem well-nigh 
spent, and no fresh impulse has come. One by one 
the lights have gone out ; their places are unfilled. 

Standing to-day at the close of a brilliant period, 
we have the means of estimating that period with 
intelligence, and of gaining adequate knowledge 
of the men who made it illustrious — knowledge not 
only of their works, but of themselves. As a con- 
tribution to this study, the present series of books 
has been prepared. 

The aim of these volumes is to describe and illus- 
trate the personal characteristics of twenty-seven 



VI 11 PREFACE, 



authors, who have been chosen as fairly representa- 
tive of their period. Careful search has been made 
for everything which might throw light upon these 
authors ; upon their appearance, habits, manners ; 
upon their talk, their work and their play, their 
strength and weakness — physical, mental, moral. 
Records of acts directly exemplifying traits of char- 
acter have been given, whenever it was possible, in 
preference to mere expressions of individual opin- 
ion. Any testimony other than that of eye-witness- 
es has been admitted with reluctance. A strictly 
chronological arrangement was impracticable, as the 
authors all belong to the same general period. They 
have, therefore, been distributed into such groups 
as were suggested by the likeness or unlikeness 
which the men bore to one another ; an arrange- 
ment according either to affinity or to contrast. 
Although the search for materials has been care- 
fully made, it is by no means exhaustive. Never- 
theless, the hope is entertained that nothing of vital 
importance has been overlooked.' The materials 
have been found abundant, bewilderingly so, as may 
be inferred from the fact that the contents of these 
volumes have been drawn from over two hundred 
different sources. 



^ The editor will be very thankful for any suggestion of other 
sources of information which may occur to readers of this book. 



PRE FA CE. IX 



The method chosen by the editor has been criti- 
cised by friends, who think that it would have been 
better to embody the results of investigation in a 
continuous narrative, thus avoiding the harsh tran- 
sitions of style and the literary awkwardness of a 
mere compilation. While recognizing the force of 
these criticisms, the editor is quite confident that 
his original design is better fitted to accomplish the 
purpose of his work. Accordingly, the several wit- 
nesses are permitted to tell their stories each in his 
own way. Nothing which directly serv^ed the end 
in view has been excluded because it happened to 
be written in bad English. On the witness-stand 
the testimony of the untaught peasant is often quite 
as valuable as that of the bard or the sage ; and so 
it happens that some strange and unpleasing con- 
trasts will be found in these pages ; for here the 
skilful and the clumsy stand side by side. The 
graceful and musical diction of De Quincey may be 
followed by the shabby finery of Willis, and the 
reader may be led from Carlyle's rugged force, or 
the dreamlike beauty of Hawthorne, to the flippancy 
of some obscure literary hack. 

The present volume is devoted to seven authors, 
whose lives and characters present a range of hu- 
manity varying widely in purpose, in experience, 
and in achievement. The leading events of their 
lives have been embodied in brief chronological 



PRE FA CE. 



tables. It is hoped that the dates are fairly accu- 
rate, as they have been derived from original author- 
ities. The bibliographical information presented in 
the introductory notes is not meant to be exhaustive, 
but merely suggestive — "book openeth book." In 
addition to this, the reader's attention is called to 
the fourth volume of T. H. Ward's "English Poets" 
(Macmillan & Co., London and New York, 1880). 
This volume contains admirable notices of the mod- 
ern English poets, estimates of their personal char- 
acters as well as of their literary works. The authors 
under present consideration are noted as follows: 
Byron, by J. A. Symonds; Shelley, by F. W. H. 
Myers ; Moore, by E. W. Gosse ; Rogers and South- 
ey, by Sir Henry Taylor ; Keats, by Matthew Arnold ; 
Landor, by Lord Houghton. 

Extracts have been made from the following 
American copyrighted books : Mrs. Kemble's " Rec- 
ords of Later Life " (Henry Holt & Co., New York, 
1882) ; James T. Fields' "Old Acquaintance : Barry 
Cornwall and Some of his Friends " (J. R. Osgood 
& Co., Boston, 1876) ; Dr. R. Shelton Mackenzie's 
edition of "Noctes Ambrosianae," 5 vols. (New York, 
1854); N. P. Willis' "Pencillings by the Way" 
(Charles Scribner, New York, 1853) ; The Atlantic 
Monthly (Houghton, Mifflin & Co., Boston) ; Lippin- 
cotfs Magazine (J. B. Lippincott & Co., Philadel- 
phia). Permission was kindly granted to make 



PREFA CE. XI 



selections from these works, and the courtesy of 
their respective owners is thankfully acknowl- 
edged. 

Among books of reference which have been espe- 
cially useful, the Catalogue of the Brooklyn Library 
holds the foremost place. This admirable work has 
been found an intelligent and trustworthy guide, 
and it is a pleasure once more to call attention to 
its excellence. It is certainly one of the most valu- 
able helps which a literary worker can possess. The 
editor would also express his sense of personal ob- 
ligation to Mr. S. B. Noyes, of the Brooklyn Library, 
for favors conferred, with unwearied kindness, at 
every stage in the preparation of these volumes. 



CHRONOLOGY. 



Bom. 




Died. 


1763. 


Rogers. 


1^55- 


1774. 


SOUTHEY. 


1843. 


1775- 


Landor. 


1864. 


1779. 


Moore. 


1852. 


1788. 


Byron. 


1824. 


1792. 


Shelley. 


1822. 


1795- 


Keats. 


1821. 



GEORGE GORDON NOEL, 

6th Lord Byron. 
1788-1824. 



INTRODUCTORY NOTE. 



IN a letter to his sisters, Macaulay says,' ''The 
worst thing that I know about Lord Byron is 
the very unfavorable impression which he made on 
men who certainly were not inclined to judge him 
harshly, and who, as far as I know, were never per- 
sonally ill-used by him. Sharp and Rogers both 
speak of him as an unpleasant, affected, splenetic 
person. I have heard hundreds and thousands of 
people who never saw him, rant about him ; but I 
never heard a single expression of fondness for him 
fall from the lips of any of those who knew him 
well." On the other hand, some of the men who 
knew him intimately left records which emphati- 
cally express admiration and affection for the man, 
as may be seen by consulting pp. 68-71 of this 
volume. 

There is, perhaps, no character among British au- 
thors so hard to understand, or as to which there is 
so wide a difference of opinion. Contradiction and 
perplexity abound in every account of his life. The 

^ Trevelyan (George Otto). Life and Letters of Lord Macau- 
lay. 2 vols, 8vo. London, 1876. 



LORD BYRON, 



Student is confused and baffled by the conflicting 
testimony of witnesses who have equal claims to his 
belief. The versatility of Byron, remarkable as it 
was, does not account for this ; the explanation is 
that, consciously or unconsciously, he was generally 
acting, playing a part, posing in some attitude 
which he thought becoming. His nature was mor- 
bid in many ways, but in none more notably than 
in his utter want of simplicity ; he was thoroughly 
artificial. 

Among the many sources of information, the fol- 
lowing works deserve particular attention : Moore's 
and Gait's "Lives of Byron;" Leigh Hunt's ''Lord 
Byron and Some of his Contemporaries ;" Trelawny's 
" Recollections of the Last Days of Shelley and By- 
ron " (republished, with alterations and additions, as 
" Records of Shelley, Byron, and the Author ") ; Ju- 
lius Millingen's " Memoirs of the Affairs of Greece ;" 
Karl Elze's "Life of Byron;" A. G. L'Estrange's 
"Life of the Rev. W. Harness;" the Countess of 
Blessington's " Conversations of Lord Byron," and 
the same writer's " Idler in Italy ; " Rev. F. Hodg- 
son's "Memoirs;" and a series of letters relating 
to Lord and Lady Byron, published in the AthencBimi^ 
August 1 8, 1883. 

Leigh Hunt was Byron's severest critic. The 
book in which he recorded his impressions of his 
former friend and patron was bitterly abused, and 
he was himself rebuked, in no measured terms, for 
having written it. Undoubtedly it was written in 
great bitterness of heart, and therefore its statements 
must be received with some caution. But Hunt 
had an excellent reputation for honesty of purpose 



LORD BYRON. 



and for kindly feeling, a reputation generally ac- 
corded to him by those who were in a position to 
judge fairly, and this fact must also be borne in 
mind. In his autobiography, written in his old age, 
he reviews this youthful work in a calm, dispassion- 
ate manner, regretfully, indeed, but without retract- 
ing any of his former statements of fact. On the 
contrary, he protests that he said nothing untrue ; 
and as the charges have not been refuted by any 
competent authority, they cannot be dismissed. 

The most satisfactory work upon Byron's life is 
that of Karl Elze. The original work was published 
in Germany, in 1870 ; and in 1872 it was translated 
into English, and published by John Murray (Lon- 
don). A new edition has recently been published, 
containing additional matter (Berlin : Oppenheim, 
1881) ; but I have not heard of a translation of this. 
Professor Elze's tenth chapter, ''Characteristics," is 
an admirable summary of the widely opposed views 
of Byron's life and character, in which the statements 
of the various authorities are clearly presented. 
Among the smaller books, designed for popular cir- 
culation, the best is Mr. John Nichol's volume in 
the "English Men of Letters " series ; the book is 
pleasantly written, and is quite free from partisan- 
ship of any kind. 

The latest contribution, " The Real Lord Byron," 
by John Cordy Jeafferson, does not add materially 
to the sum of previous knowledge of the subject. 



LEADING EVENTS OF BYRON'S LIFE. 

1788. Bom, January 22d, in London. 

i8oi. — (Aged 13.) A scholar at Harrow. 

1805. — (Aged 17.) Enters Cambridge University. 

1806. — (Aged 18.) Publishes a volume of poems, which he almost 
immediately suppresses. 

1807. — (Aged 19.) Publishes "Hours of Idleness." 

1809.— (Aged 21.) Publishes "English Bards and Scotch Re- 
viewers." Takes his seat in Parliament. 
Goes abroad. 

181 1. — (Aged 23.) Returns to England. 

1812. — (Aged 24.) Publishes the first and second cantos of " Childe 
Harold's Pilgrimage."^ 

1813.— (Aged 25.) Publishes "The Bride of Abydos." 

1814,— (Aged 26.) Publishes "The Corsair." 

1815. — (Aged 27.) Marries Miss Milbanke, January 2d. 

1816. — (Aged 28.) His wife leaves him in January ; he leaves Eng- 
land in April. Meets Shelley, Mary W. 
Godwin, and Jane Clairmont, at Geneva, in 
May.* 

1817. — (Aged 29.) Publishes "Manfred." 

1818.— (Aged 30.) Publishes "Beppo." 

1819.— (Aged 31.) Publishes the first part of " Don Juan." 

1820. — (Aged 32.) Publishes " Marino Faliero. " 

1821. — (Aged 33.) Publishes "The Two Foscari," " Sardanapa- 
lus," and "Cain." 

1822. — (Aged 34.) Engaged upon TAe Liberal^ with Leigh Hunt. 
Publishes "The Deformed Transformed," 
"Werner," and the concluding cantos of 
" Don Juan." 

1823. — (Aged 35.) Sails for Greece, July 14th. 

1824. — (Aged 36 years, 2 months.) Dies, in Greece, April 19th. 

* From this year, 1816, until his departure for Greece, Byron lived upon the 
continent, for the greater part of the time in Italy. He never returned to Eng- 
land. 



J 



BYRON. 



THAT, as a child, his temper was violent, or 
rather sullenly passionate, is certain. Even 
when in petticoats he showed the same uncontrol- 
lable spirit Avith his nurse which he afterwards ex- 
hibited, when an author, with his critics. Being 
angrily reprimanded by her one day for having soiled 
or torn a new frock in which he had been just 
dressed, he got into one of his " silent rages " (as he 
himself has described them), seized the frock with 
both his hands, rent it from top to bottom, and 
stood in sullen stillness, setting his censurer and 



her wrath at 
Byron")/ 



defiance. — Thomas Moore (" Life of 



The malformation of his foot was, even at this 
childish age,^ a subject on which he showed pecu- 
liar sensitiveness. I have been told by a gentleman 
of Glasgow, that the person who nursed his wife, 
and who still lives in his family, used often to join 



' Moore (Thomas). Letters and Journals of Lord Byron, with 
Notices of his Life. 2 vols, 4to. London, 1830. 



When eight years old. 



Temper in 
childhood. 



Sensitive- 
ness about 
his deforin- 
ity. 



10 



BYRON, 



Sensitive- 
ness abotit 
his cieforin- 
ity. 



School-n/e. 



P r efe r s 

g00d'/cll07V- 

ship to 
scholarship. 



the nurse of Byron when they were out with their 
respective charges, and one day said to her as they 
walked together, " What a pretty boy Byron is ! 
What a pity he has such a leg ! " On hearing this 
allusion to his infirmity, the child's eyes flashed with 
anger, and striking at her with a little whip which he 
held in his hand, he exclaimed impatiently, '' Dinna 
speak of it ! " Sometimes, however, as in after-life, 
he could talk indifferently, and even jestingly, of 
this lameness ; and there being another little boy in 
the neighborhood who had a similar defect in one 
of his feet, Byron would say, laughingly, " Come and 
see the twa laddies with the twa club feet going up 
the Broad-street." '— T. Moore ("Life of Byron"). 

At school I was . . . remarked for the extent 
and readiness of my general information ; but in all 
other respects idle, capable of great sudden ex- 
ertions (such as thirty or forty Greek hexameters, 
of course with such prosody as pleased God), but 
of few continuous drudgeries. My qualities were 
much more oratorical and martial than poetical. 
. . . No one had the least notion that I should 
subside into poesy. — Lord Byron (quoted in Moore's 
"Life of Byron"). 

Of his class-fellows at the grammar-school there 
are many . . . still alive, by whom he is well re- 
membered ; and the general impression they retain 
of him is, that he was a lively, warm-hearted, and 
high-spirited boy — passionate and resentful, but 

^ See also pp. 23, 24. 



BYRON. 



II 



affectionate and companionable with his school- 
fellows — and to a remarkable degree venturous and 
fearless, and (as one of them significantly expressed 
it) "always more ready to give a blow than to take 
one." . . . He was, indeed, much more anxious 
to distinguish himself among his school-fellows by 
prowess in all sports and exercises, than by ad- 
vancement in learning. Though quick, when he 
could be persuaded to attend, or had any study that 
pleased him, he was in general very low in the class, 
nor seemed ambitious of being promoted any higher. 
— T. Moore ('^Life of Byron "). 

While Lord Byron and Mr. Peel were at Harrow 
together, a tyrant some few years older . . . 
claimicd a right to fag little Peel, which claim 
(whether rightly or wrongly I know not) Peel re- 
sisted. His resistance, however, was in vain ; 



not only subdued him, but determined also to pun- 
ish the refractory slave ; and proceeded forthwith 
to put this determination in practice, by inflicting 
a kind of bastinado on the inner fleshy side of the 
boy's arm, which, during the operation, was twisted 
around with some degree of technical skill, to ren- 
der the pain more acute. While the stripes were suc- 
ceeding each other, and poor Peel writhing under 
them, Byron saw and felt for the misery of his 
friend ; and although he knew that he was not 

strong enough to fight , w^ith any hope of 

success, and that it was dangerous even to approach 
him, he advanced to the scene of action, and with a 
blush of rage, tears in his eyes, and a voice trem- 
bling between terror and indignation, asked very 



Pr efe r s 
good-felloiv- 

ship to 
scholarship. 



A generous 
attempt to 

shield a 
school-mate. 



12 



BYRON'. 



A generous 
attempt to 

shield a 
school-mate. 



Bashfulness 
hi youth. 



humbly if would be pleased to tell him, 

*' how many stripes he meant to inflict" "Why," 
returned the executioner, ^'you little rascal, what is 
that to you ? " '' Because, if you please," said Byron, 
" I would take half."— T. Moore ('' Life of Byron"). 

One of the most intimate and valued of his friends, 
at this period,^ has given me this account of her first 
acquaintance with him : " The first time I was in- 
troduced to him was at a party at his mother's, when 
he was so shy that she was forced to send for him 
three times before she could persuade him to come 
into the drawing-room, to play with the young peo- 
ple at a round game. He was then a fat, bashful 
boy, with his hair combed straight over his forehead 
. . . The next morning Mrs. Byron brought him 
to call at our house, when he still continued shy 
and formal in his manner. The conversation turned 
upon Cheltenham, where we had been staying, the 
amusements there, the plays, etc. ; and I mentioned 
that I had seen the character of Gabriel Lackbrain 
very well performed. His mother getting up to go, 
he accompanied her, making a formal bow, and I, 
in allusion to the play, said, * Goodby, Gaby.' His 
countenance lighted up, his handsome mouth dis- 
played a broad grin, all his shyness vanished, never 
to return, and upon his mother's saying ' Come, 
Byron, are you ready ?' — no, she might go by her- 
self, he would stay and talk a little longer ; and from 
that moment he used to come in and go out at all 
hours, as it pleased him, and in our house consid- 



When he was about sixteen years old. 



BYRON. 



13 



ered himself perfectly at home.": — T. Moore ("Life 
of Byron "). 

Lord Byron's face was handsome ; eminently so 
in some respects. He had a mouth and chin fit for 
Apollo ; and when I first knew him, there were both 
lightness and energy all over his aspect. But his 
countenance did not improve with age, and there 
were always some defects in it. The jaw was too 
big for the upper part. It had all the wilfulness of 
a despot in it. The animal predominated over the 
intellectual part of his head, inasmuch as the face 
altogether was large in proportion to the skull. 
The eyes also were set too near one another ; and 
the nose, though handsome in itself, had the appear- 
ance, when you saw it closely in front, of being 
grafted on the face, rather than growing properly 
out of it. His person was very handsome, though 
terminating in lameness, and tending to fat and 
effeminacy ; which makes me remember what a hos- 
tile fair one objected to him, namely, that he had 
little beard. . . . His lameness was only in one 
foot, the left ; and it was so little visible to casual 
notice, that as he lounged about a room (which he 
did in such a manner as to screen it) it was hardly 
perceivable. But it vv^as a real and even a sore lame- 
ness. Much walking upon it fevered and hurt it. It 
was a shrunken foot, a little twisted. — Leigh Hunt 
("Lord Byron and Some of his Contemporaries ")/ 



' Hunt (James Henry Leigh). Lord Byron and Some of his 
Contemporaries, with Recollections of the Author's Life. 2 vols, 
8vo. London, 1828. 



Bashfuhtess 
iit youth. 



Personal 
appearance. 



14 



BYRON. 



Personal 
appearance. 



AJirstsight 
of Byron. 



His head was remarkably small, so much so as to 

be rather out of proportion with his face. The 

forehead, though a little too narrow, was high, and 

j appeared more so from his having his hair (to pre- 

j serve it, he said) shaved over the temples ; w^hile the 

I glossy, dark brown curls, clustering over his head, 

gave the finish to its beauty. When to this is added 

that his nose, though handsomely, was rather thickly 

shaped, that his teeth were white and regular, and 

his complexion colorless, as good an idea, perhaps, 

as it is the power of mere words to convey may be 

conceived of his features. — T. Moore (" Life of 

Byron "). 

Genoa, April i, 1823. — Saw Lord Byron for the 
first time. The impression of the first few moments 
disappointed me, as I had, both from the portraits 
and descriptions given, conceived a different idea 
of him. I had fancied him taller, with a more 
dignified and commanding air ; and I looked in 
vain for the hero-looking sort of person with whom 
I had so long identified him in imagination. His 
appearance is, however, highly prepossessing ; his 
head is finely shaped, and the forehead open, high, 
and noble ; his eyes are gray and full of expression, 
but one is visibly larger than the other ; the nose is 
large and well shaped, but from being a little too 
thick, it looks better in profile than in front-face ; his 
mouth is the most remarkable feature in his face, 
the upper lip of Grecian shortness, and the corners 
descending ; the lips full and finely cut. In speak- 
ing, he shows his teeth very much, and they are 
white and even ; but I observed that even in his 



byron: 



smile — and he smiles frequently— there is something 
of a scornful expression in his mouth that is evi- 
dently natural, and not, as many suppose, affected. 
This particularly struck me. His chin is large and 
well shaped, and finishes well the oval of his face. 
He is extremely thin, indeed so much so that his 
figure has almost a boyish air ; ^ his face is peculiarly 
pale, but not the paleness of ill-health, as its char- 
acter is that of fairness, the fairness of a dark-haired 
person — and his hair (which is getting rapidly gray) 
is of a very dark brown, and curls naturally ; he 
uses a good deal of oil in it, which makes it look 
still darker. His countenance is full of expression, 
and changes with the subject of conversation ; it 
gains on the beholder the more it is seen, and leaves 
an agreeable impression. I should say that melan- 
choly was its prevailing character, as I observed 
that when any observation elicited a smile — and 
they were many, as the conversation was gay and 
playful — it appeared to linger but for a moment on 
his lip, which instantly resumed its former expres- 
sion of seriousness. 

His whole appearance is remarkably gentleman- 
like, and he owes nothing of this to his toilet, as his 
coat appears to have been many years made, is 
much too large — and all his garments convey the 
idea of having been purchased ready-made, so ill 
do they fit him. There is a gaucherie in his move- 



' In writing of a meeting with Byron, which occurred about two 
years before the date of the Countess of Blessington's description, 
Leigh Hunt says, '* Upon seeing Lord Byron, I hardly knew him, 
he was grown so fat." Byron's precautionary measures during 
these two years must have been remarkably successful. 



AJirstsighi 
of Byron. 



i6 



BYRON, 



AJirst sight 
of Byron. 



Captain 
Treiwrnfiy^s 
impressions. 



ments, which evidently proceeds from the perpetual 
consciousness of his lameness, that appears to haunt 
him ; for he tries to conceal his foot when seated, 
and when walking has a nervous rapidity in his 
manner. He is very slightly lame, and the de- 
formity of his foot is so little remarkable that I am 
not now aware which foot it is/ — Countess of 
Blessington C' Conversations of Lord Byron ").'^ 

In external appearance Byron realized that ideal 
standard with which imagination adorns genius. 
He was in the prime of life, thirty-five ; of middle 
height, five feet eight and a half inches ; regular 
features, without a stain or furrow on his pallid 
skin, his shoulders broad, chest open, body and 
limbs finely proportioned. His small finely-finished 
head and curly hair had an airy and graceful ap- 
pearance from the massiveness and length of his 
throat ; you saw his genius in his eyes and lips. In 
short Nature could do little more than she had done 
for him, both in outward form, and in the inward 
spirit ghe had given to animate it. . . . His 
lameness certainly helped to make him sceptical, 



^ This description is substantially the same which the Countess 
gives in her "Idler in Italy," except that in that work she remarks 
that "his laugh is musical, but he rarely indulged in it during our 
interview ; and when he did, it was quickly followed by a graver 
aspect, as if he liked not this exhibition of hilarity." She also 
says, " His are the smallest male hands I ever saw ; finely shaped, 
delicately white " — with farther particulars concerning the beauty 
of his nails, which she likens to pink sea-shells, etc. 

2 Blessington (Margaret P. G., Countess of). Conversations of 
Lord Byron. 8vo. London, 1850. 



BYRON. 



17 



cynical, and savage. There was no peculiarity in 
his dress, it was adapted to the climate ; ^ a tartan 
jacket braided, ... a blue velvet cap with 
a gold band, and very loose nankeen trowsers, 
strapped down so as to cover his feet; his throat 
was not bare as represented in drawings. — E. J. 
Trelawny (" Records of Shelley, Byron, etc."). ^ 

He had most beautiful eyes, well set in his head ; 
they were like a cat's, changing continually in color, 
now brown, now golden, then green, full of ever- 
varying expression. — E. J. Trelawny [Whitehall 
Review^ 1880). 

In a letter of Coleridge's to a friend, written 
April 10, 1816, he thus speaks of Byron : " If you 
had seen Lord Byron, you could scarcely disbe- 
lieve him. So beautiful a countenance I scarcely 
ever saw — his teeth so many stationary smiles, his 
eyes the open portals of the sun — things of light 
and for light — and his forehead so ample, and 
yet so flexible, passing from marble smoothness 
into a hundred w'reaths and lines and dimples 
correspondent to the feelings and sentiments he 
is uttering." — James Gillman ('^ Life of Cole- 
ridge").' 

1 That of Italy. 

'^ Trelawny (Edward John). Records of Shelley, Byron, and the 
author. 2 vols., i2mo. London, 1878. (Published originally in 
1858, with the title, Recollections of the Last Days of Shelley and 
Byron.) 

^ Gillman (James). Life of S. T. Coleridge, vol. I. 8vo. London, 
1838. ( Only one volume was published.') 



Captain 
Trela7vtiy'' s 
impressions. 



i8 



BYRON, 



Personal 
appearance. 



Perhaps the beauty of his physiognomy has been 
more highly spoken of than it really merited. Its 
chief grace consisted, when he was in a gay humor, 
of a liveliness which gave a joyous meaning to 
every articulation of the muscles and features ; 
when he was less agreeably disposed, the expres- 
sion was morose to a very repulsive degree. — John 
Galt ("Life of Byron ").* 

A countenance, exquisitely modelled to the ex- 
pression of feeling and passion, and exhibiting the 
remarkable contrast of very dark hair and eyebrows, 
with light and expressive eyes, presented to the 
physiognomist the most interesting subject for the 
exercise of his art. The predominating expression 
was that of deep and habitual thought, which gave 
way to the most rapid play of features when he en- 
gaged in interesting discussion ; so that a brother 
poet compared them to the sculpture of a beautiful 
alabaster vase, only seen to perfection when lighted 
from within. The flashes of mirth, indignation, or 
satirical dislike, which frequently animated Lord 
Byron's countenance, might, during an evening's 
conversation, be mistaken by a stranger for its ha- 
bitual expression, so easily and so happily was it 
formed for them all ; but those who had an oppor- 
tunity of studying his features for a length of time, 
and upon various occasions, both of rest and emo- 
tion, will agree with us that their proper language 
was that of melancholy. — Sir Walter Scott 
{Quarterly Review^ October, 1816). 



Gait (John). Life of Lord Byron. i6mo. London, 1830. 



BYROy. 



19 



The absence of any description by the Countess 
Guiccioli of Byron's appearance calls for a word of 
explanation ; the countess wrote several descrip- 
tions, and she might reasonably be supposed to 
know how Byron looked ; her manner, however, 
fails to inspire confidence. She says: ''The Al- 
mighty has created beings of such harmonious and 
ideal beauty that they defy description or analysis. 
Such a one was Lord Byron. His wonderful beauty 
of expression . . . summed up in one magnifi- 
cent type the highest expression of every possible 
kind of beauty." And again she refers to " that kind 
of supernatural light which seemed to surround him 
like a halo." ^ In view of these observations, the 
failure to chronicle the lady's portrayal of her 
friend's " harmonious and ideal beauty " may per- 
haps be pardoned. 

His appearance on horseback was not advan- 
tageous, and he seemed aware of it, for he made 
many excuses for his dress and equestrian appoint- 
ments. His horse was literally covered with various 
trappings, in the way of cavessons, martingales, and 
Heaven knows how many other (to me) unknown 
inventions. The saddle was a la hussarde with 
holsters, in which he always carried pistols. His 
dress consisted of a nankeen jacket and trousers, 
which appeared to have shrunk from washing; the 
jacket embroidered in the same color, and with 
three rows of buttons ; the waist very short, the 



Personal 
apj>eara7ice. 



^ Guiccioli (Teresa Gamba, Contessd). Recollections of Byron. 
2 vols., 8vo. London, 1869. 



On horse- 
back. 



20 



BYRON. 



On horse- 
back. 



A timid 
rider. 



back very narrow, and the sleeves set in as they 
used to be ten or fifteen years before ; a black stock, 
very narrow ; a dark blue velvet cap with a shade, 
and a very rich gold band and large gold tassel at 
the crown ; nankeen gaiters, and a pair of blue 
spectacles, completed his costume, which was any- 
thing but becoming. This was his general dress of 
a morning for riding, but I have seen it changed for 
a green tartan plaid jacket. 

He did not ride well, which surprised us, as, from 
the frequent allusions to horsemanship in his works, 
we expected to find him almost a Nimrod. It was 
evident that he \i2,di pretensions on this point, though 
he certainly was what I should call a timid rider. 
When his horse made a false step, which was not 
unfrequent, he seemed discomposed ; and when we 
came to any bad part of the road, he immediately 
checked his course and walked his horse very slowly, 
though there really was nothing to make even a 
lady nervous. Finding that I could perfectly man- 
age (or what he called bully) a very highly dressed 
horse that I daily rode, he became extremely anx- 
ious to buy it ; asked me a thousand questions as to 
how I had acquired such a perfect command of it, 
etc. ... As I was by no means a bold rider, we 
were rather amused at observing Lord Byron's opin- 
ion of my courage.' — Countess of Blessington 
(" Conversations of Lord Byron "). 



^ This account differs materially from Leigh Hunt's opinion of 
Byron's horsemanship ; Hunt says : " He was a good rider, grace- 
ful, and kept a firm seat." 



BYROJSf. 



21 



No defect existed in the formation of his limbs ; 
his slight infirmity was nothing but the result of 
weakness of one of his ankles. His habit of ever 
being on horseback had brought on the emaciation 
of his legs, as evinced by the post-mortem examina- 
tion ; besides which, the best proof of this has been 
lately given in an English newspaper much to the 
following effect : " Mrs. Wildman (the w4dow of the 
colonel who had bought Newstead) has lately given 
to the Naturalist Society of Nottingham several ob- 
jects which had belonged to Lord Byron, and among 
others his boot and shoe trees. These trees are 
about nine inches long, narrow, and generally of a 
symmetrical form. They were accompanied by the 
following statement of Mr. Swift, bootmaker, who 
worked for his lordship from 1805 to 1807. . . . 
'William Swift, bootmaker at Southwell, Notting- 
hamshire, having had the honor of working for Lord 
Byron when residing at Southwell from 1805 to 1807, 
asserts that these were the trees upon which his 
lordship's boots and shoes were made, and that the 
last pair delivered was on May 10, 1807. He more- 
over affirms that his lordship had not a club foot, as 
has been said, but that both his feet were equally 
well formed, one, however, being an inch and a half 
shorter than the other. The defect was not in the 
foot, but in the ankle, which, being weak, caused 
the foot to turn out too much. To remedy this his 
lordship wore a very light and thin boot, which was 
tightly laced just under the sole, and, when a boy, 
he was made to wear a piece of iron with a joint at 
the ankle, which passed behind the leg and was tied 
behind the shoe. The calf of this leg was weaker 



Varyingtes- 

ti7nouy as to 

Ids lame- 



22 



BYRON. 



Varyingies- 
timofty as to 
his lame- 
ness. 



than the other, and it was the left leg. (Signed) 
William Swift.' " This, then, is the extent of the de- 
fect of which so much has been said, and which has 
been called a deformity. As to its being visible, all 
those who knew him assert that it was so little evi- 
dent that it was even impossible to discover in 
which of the feet or legs the fault existed. — Count- 
ess GuicciOLi C' Recollections of Byron"). 

The only blemish of his body . . . was the 
congenital malformation of his left foot and leg. 
The foot was deformed, and turned inwards, and the 
leg vv^as smaller and shorter than the sound one. Al- 
though Lord Byron preferred attributing his lame- 
ness to the unskilful treatment of a sprained ankle, 
there can be little or no doubt, that he was born 
club-footed. — Julius Millingen (''Memoirs of Af- 
fairs of Greece"). ^ 

. . . It was caused by the contraction of the 
back sinews, which the doctors call " Tendon Achil- 
lis," that prevented his heels resting on the ground, 
and compelled him to walk on the fore part of his 
feet ; except this defect, his feet were perfect. — E. J. 
Trelawny ("Records of Shelley, Byron, etc.," 1878). 

In 1858 Trelawny said, in his " Recollections of 
the Last Days of Shelley and Byron : " "Both Byron's 
feet were clubbed, and his legs withered to the knee 
— the form and features of an Apollo, with the feet 
and legs of a sylvan satyr." Here, as in so many 
other instances, it is almost impossible to discover 



^ Millingen (Julius). Memoirs of the Affairs of Greece, with An- 
ecdotes of Lord Byron. i2mo. London, 1831. 



BYROA\ 



21 



the absolute truth about Byron. The latest student 
of his life, Mr. John Nichol/ after remarking upon 
the differences in the various accounts, says : " It is 
certain that one of the poet's feet was, either at 
birth or at a very early period, so seriously clubbed 
or twisted as to affect his gait, and to a considerable 
extent his habits. It also appears that the surgical 
means — boots, bandages, etc.' — adopted to straighten 
the limb, only aggravated the evil." 

In his attention to his person and dress, to the be- 
coming arrangement of his hair, and to whatever 
might best show off the beauty with which nature 
had gifted him, he manifested his anxiety to make 
himself pleasing to that sex, who were, from first to 
last, the ruling stars of his destiny. The fear of be- 
coming, what he was naturally inclined to be, enor- 
mously fat, had induced him, from his first entrance at 
Cambridge, to adopt, for the purpose of reducing him- 
self, a system of violent exercise and abstinence, to- 
getherwith the frequent use of warm baths. But the 
imbittering circumstance of his life . . . was, 
strange to say, the trifling deformity of his foot. B}^ 
that one slight blemish (as in his moments of melan- 
choly he persuaded himself) all the blessings that na- 
ture had showered upon him were counterbalanced. 
His reverend friend Mr. B., finding him one day un- 
usually dejected, endeavored to cheer and rouse him 
by representing, in their brightest colors, all the vari- 
ous advantages with which Providence had endowed 



^ Nichol (John). Byron, i2mo. London and New York, 
i860. (English Men of Letters. Ed. by J. Morley.) 



Var\i7igtes- 
timony as ta 
his lame- 
ness. 



Regard for 
his personal 
aj>pearafice. 



24 



BYROA'. 



Regard for 
his personal 
nj'jfearance. 



Fo/>pish- 
7iess, 



Effetninaie 
and inascu- 
lifie traits. 



him^and, among the greatest, that of "a mind 
which placed him above the rest of mankind." " Ah, 
my dear friend," said Byron mournfully, ''if this 
(laying his hand on his forehead) places me above 
the rest of mankind, that (pointing to his foot) 
places me far, far below them." — T. Moore (" Life 
of Byron"). 

'Ho petit maitre could pay more sedulous attention 
than he did to external appearance, or consult with 
more complacency the looking-glass. Even when 
en neglige h.Q studied the na,ture of the postures he 
assumed as attentively as if he had been sitting for 
his picture ; and so much value did he attach to 
the whiteness of his hands, that, in order not to 
suffer " the winds of heaven to visit them too 
roughly," he constantly, and even within doors, 
wore gloves. — Julius Millingen ("Memoirs of Af- 
fairs of Greece"). 

He had a delicate white hand, of which he was 
proud ; and he attracted attention to it by rings. 
He thought a hand .of this description almost the 
only mark remaining nowadays of a gentleman. 
. . . . He often appeared holding a handker- 
chief, upon which his jewelled fingers lay im- 
bedded, as in a picture. He was fond of fine 
linen as a Quaker ; and had the remnant of his hair 
oiled and trimmed with all the anxiety of a Sarda- 
napalus. The visible character to which this effemi- 
nacy gave rise, appears to have indicated itself as 
early as his travels in the Levant, where the Grand 
Signior is said to have taken him for a woman. But 



BYRON. 



25 



he had tastes of a more masculine description. He 
was fond of swimming to the last, and used to push 
out to a good distance in the Gulf of Genoa. ^ — 
Leigh Hunt (" Lord Byron and his Contempo- 
raries"). 

Nothing gratifies him so much as being told that 
he grows thin. This fancy of his is pushed to an 
almost childish extent ; and he frequently asks, 
" Don't you think I get thinner ? " or " Did you ever 
see any person so thin as I am, who was not ill ? " 
He says he is sure no one could recollect him were 
he to go to England at present, and seems to enjoy 
this thought very much. — Countess of Blessington 
C Conversations of Lord Byron "). 

I frequently heard him say, " I especially dread, 
in this world, two things, to which I have reason to 
believe I am equally predisposed — growing fat and 
growing mad ; and it would be difficult for me to de- 
cide, were I forced to make a choice, which of these 
conditions I would choose in preference." To avoid 
corpulence, not satisfied with eating . . . spar- 
ingly, and renouncing the use of every kind of food 
that he deemed nourishing, he had recourse almost 
daily to strong drastic pills, . . . and if he 
observed the slightest increase in the size of his 
wrists or waist, which he measured with scrupulous 
exactness every morning, he immediately sought to 
reduce it by taking a large dose of Epsom salts, 



^ Byron was also fond of boxing, and often tried his skill with 
Jackson, a professional pugilist. 



Effevitnate 
and vtasczi- 
line traits. 



Dread of 
carj>ulettce. 



26 



BYRON. 



Diet. 



Conflicting 

testimony as 

to his use of 

tobacco. 



Voice atid 
conversa- 
tion. 



Con7>ersa- 
tion. 



besides the usual pills. — Julius Millingen (" Me- 
moirs of Affairs of Greece "). 

His system of diet here ^ was regulated by an ab- 
stinence almost incredible. A thin slice of bread, 
with tea, at breakfast — a light, vegetable dinner, 
with a bottle or two of Seltzer water, tinged with 
vin de Grave, and in the evening a cup of green 
tea, without milk or sugar, formed the whole of his 
sustenance. The pangs of hunger he appeased by 
privately chewing tobacco and smoking cigars.^ — 
T. Moore ('' Life of Byron"). 

His voice and accent are peculiarly agreeable, but 
effeminate,^ clear, harmonious, and so distinct that 
though his general tone in speaking is rather low 
than high, not a word is lost. — Countess of Bless- 
iNGTON (" Conversations of Lord Byron "). 

Captain Medwin . . . tells us that the noble 
poet's " voice had a flexibility, a variety in its tones, 
a power and a pathos beyond any I have heard." 
. . . But from all I ever heard of it, I should 
form a very different judgment. His voice, as far 



■' At Diodati, in i8i6. 

^ Here again we meet with conflicting testimony, for Trelawny 
says, *' In truth Byron never smoked either pipe or cigar." It is 
very difficult, however, to reconcile this statement with the allu- 
sions to smoking which are to be found in Byron's poems. For 
further particulars about his diet, see pp. 34, 35. 

^ Lady Hester Stanhope told Alexander William Kinglake that 
Byron had an affected manner of speaking and a slight lisp. 
Kinglake records this in " Eothen." 



BYROX. 



2/ 



as I was acquainted with it, though not incapable of 
loudness, nor unmelodious in its deeper tones, was 
confined. He made an effort when he threw it out. 
The sound of it in ordinary, except when he laughed, 
was pretty and lugubrious. He spoke inwardly, 
and slurred over his syllables, perhaps in order to 
hide the burr. In short, it was as much the reverse 
of anything various and powerful, as his enuncia- 
tion was of anything articulate. . . . Lord 
Byron had no conversation, properly speaking. 
He could not interchange ideas or information w^ith 
you, as a man of letters is expected to do. His 
thoughts required the concentration of silence and 
study to bring them to a head, and they deposited 
the amount in the shape of a stanza. His acquaint- 
ance with books was very circumscribed. The same 
personal experience, however, upon which he very 
properly drew for his authorship, might have ren- 
dered him a companion more interesting by far 
than men who could talk better ; and the great 
reason why his conversation disappointed you was, 
not that he had not anything to talk about, but that 
he was haunted by a perpetual affectation, and 
could not talk sincerely. It was by fits only that 
he spoke with any gravity, or made his extraordi- 
nary disclosures ; and at no time did you know^ 
well what to believe. The rest was all quip and 
crank, not of the pleasantest kind, and equally dis- 
tant from simplicity or wit. The best thing to say 
of it was, that he knew playfulness to be consistent 
with greatness ; and the worst, that he thought 
everything in him was great, even to his vul- 
garities. Mr. Shelley said of him, that he never 



Conversa- 
tion. 



28 



BYRON, 



Conversa- 
tion. 



made you laugh to your own content ... It is 
not to be concluded, that his jokes were not now 
and then very happy, or that admirers of his lord- 
ship, who paid him visits, did not often go away 
more admiring. I am speaking of his conversation 
in general, and of the impression it made upon you, ' 
compared with what was to be expected from a 
man of wit and experience. — Leigh Hunt (" Lord 
Byron and his Contemporaries "). 

Byron is a great talker ; his flippancy ceases in a 
tete a tete^ and he becomes sententious, abandoning 
himself to the subject, and seeming to think aloud, 
though his language has the appearance of stiffness, 
and is quite opposed to the trifling chit-chat that he 
enters into when in general society. I attribute 
this to his having lived so much alone, as also to 
the desire he now professes of applying himself to 
prose writing. He affects a sort of Johnsonian 
tone, likes very much to be listened to, and seems 
to observe the effect he produces on his hearer. In 
mixed society his ambition is to appear the man of 
fashion ; he adopts a light tone of badinage and 
persiflage that does not sit gracefully on him, but is 
always anxious to turn the subject to his own per- 
sonal affairs, or feelings, which are either lamented 
with an air of melancholy, or dwelt on with playful 
ridicule, according to the humor he happens to be 
in. — Countess of Blessington ('' Conversations of 
Lord Byron "). 

I never met with any man who shines so much in 
conversation. He shines the more, perhaps, for not 



BYRON. 



29 



seeking to shine. His ideas flow without effort, 
without his having occasion to think. As in his let- 
ters, he is not nice about expressions or words ; 
there are no conceahxients in him, no injunctions to 
secrecy. He tells everything that he has thought 
or done without the least reserve, and as if he 
wished the whole world to know it ; and does not 
throw the slightest gloss over his errors. . . . He 
hates argument, and never argues for victory. He 
gives every one an opportunity of sharing in the con- 
versation, and has the art of turning it to subjects 
that may bring out the person with w^hom he con- 
verses. — Thomas Medwin ("Conversations of Lord 
Byron ").^ 

Report had prepared me to meet a man of pecul- 
iar habits and quick temper, and I had some doubts 
whether we were likely to suit each other in society. 
I was most agreeably disappointed in this respect. 
I found Lord Byron in the highest degree courte- 
ous, and even kind. We met for an hour or two 
almost daily in Mr. Murray's drawing-room, and 
found a great deal to say to each other. Our senti- 
ments agreed a good deal, except upon the subjects 
of religion and politics, upon neither of v>^hich I was 
inclined to believ^e that Lord Byron entertained very 
fixed opinions. — Sir Walter Scott (quoted in 
Moore's " Life of Byron "). 

Everything in his manner, person, and conversa- 
tion, tended to maintain the charm which his genius 



^ Medwin (Thomas). Conversations of Lord Byron, Noted Dur- 
ing a Residence at Pisa, in 1821 and 1822. 8vo. London, 1824. 



Com>e*sa- 
tioft. 



Conversa- 
tion and 
personal 
charvu 



30 



BYRON-. 



had flung around him ; and those admitted to his 
conversation, far from finding that the inspired poet 
sunk into ordinary mortality, felt themselves at- 
tached to him, not only by many noble qualities, 
but by the interest of a mysterious, undefined, and 
almost painful curiosity. — Sir Walter Scott 
{Qiiarterly Review^ October, 1816). 



Co7t7'ersa- 
Hon and 

personal 
charm. 



An indis- 
creet talker 



He is an extraordinary person, indiscreet to a de- 
gree that is surprising, exposing his own feelings, 
and entering into details of those of others which 
ought to be sacred, with a degree of frankness as un- 
necessary as it is rare. . Incontinence of speech is his 
besetting sin. He is, I am persuaded, incapable of 
keeping any secret, however it may concern his own 
honor or that of another ; and the first person with 
whom he found himself tcte a tete would be made the 
confidant without any reference to his worthiness 
of the confidence or not. This indiscretion pro- 
ceeds not from malice, but I should say from want 
of delicacy of mind. — Countess of Blessington 
(" Conversations of Lord Byron "). 

It is strange to see the perfect abandon with which 
he converses to recent acquaintances, on subjects 
which even friends would think too delicate for dis- 
cussion. . . . Byron is perfectly at his ease in 
society, and generally makes others so, except when 
he enters into family details, which places persons 
of any refinement in a painful position. — Countess 
OF Blessington ( "Idler in Italy ").^ 



* Blessington (Margaret P. G., Countess of). The Idler in Italy. 
3 vols., 8vo. London, 1839. 



BYRON. 



31 



He tells a story remarkably well, mimics the man- 
ner of the persons he describes very successfully, 
and has a true comic vein when he is disposed to 
indulge it' — Countess of Blessington {" Idler in 
Italy"). 

Could some of the persons who believe him to be 
their friend, hear with what unction he mimics their 
peculiarities, unfolds their secrets, displays their 
defects, and ridicules their vanity, they would not 
feel gratified by, though they must acknowledge the 
skill of their dissector ; who, by the accuracy of his 
remarks and imitations, proves that he has studied 
his subjects con amore^^ — Countess of Blessington 
(" Idler in Italy "). 

To those who only know Lord Byron as an author, 
it would be difficult, if not impossible, to convey a 
just impression of him as a man. In him the ele- 
ments of good and evil were so strongly mixed, that 
an error could not be detected that was not allied to 
some good quality ; and his fine qualities, and they 
were many, could hardly be separated from the 
faults that sullied them. ... A nearly daily 
intercourse of ten weeks with Byron left the im- 
pression on my mind, that if an extraordinary quick- 
ness of perception prevented his passing over the 
errors of those with whom he came in contact, and a 
natural incontinence of speech betrayed him into an 

' Several persons have recorded the fact that Byron was a good 
mimic, and gave excellent imitations of the various actors of his 
day. 

^ See pp. 59-62. 



A food 



An apology 
for his cen- 
soriousness. 



32 



BYRON. 



An apology 
for his cen- 
soriousKess. 



A lover of 
storms. 



exposure of them, a candor and good nature, quite 
as remarkable, often led him to enumerate their 
virtues, and to draw attention to them. . . . 
There was no premeditated malignity in Byron's 
nature ; though constantly in the habit of exposing 
the follies and vanities of his friends, I never heard 
him blacken their reputations, and I never felt an 
unfavorable impression from any of the censures he 
bestowed, because I saw they were aimed at follies, 
and not character. . . . The more I see of 
Byron, the more I am convinced that all he says 
and does should be judged more leniently than the 
sayings and doings of others — as his proceed from 
the impulse of the moment, and never from pre- 
meditated malice. He cannot resist expressing what- 
ever comes into his mind ; and the least shade of 
the ridiculous is seized by him at a glance, and por- 
trayed with a facility and felicity that must encour- 
age the propensity to ridicule, which is inherent in 
him. All the malice of his nature has lodged itself 
on his lips and the fingers of his right hand — for 
there is none I am persuaded to be found in his 
heart, w^hich has more of good than most people 
give him credit for, except those who have lived 
with him on habits of intimacy. — Countess of Bless- 
INGTON ('' Conversations of Lord Byron "). 

In 1822 the Countess of Blessington talked with a 
boatman at Geneva, who had been employed by 
Byron. This man told her, as she states in her 
" Idler in Italy," that Byron " passed whole nights 
on the lake, always selecting the most boisterous 
weather for such expeditions ; " and he said, *' I 



BYKO.V. 



33 



never saw a rough evening set in . . . without 
being sure that he would send for me ; and the 
higher the wind, and the more agitated the lake, 
the more he enjoyed it. We have often remained 
out eighteen hours at a time, and in very bad 
weather." 

Such effect had the passionate energy of Kean's 
acting on his mind, that once, in seeing him play 
Sir Giles Overreach, he was so affected as to be 
seized with a sort of convulsive fit ; and we shall 
find him some years after, in Italy, when the repre- 
sentation of Alfieri's tragedy of Mirra had agitated 
him in the same violent manner, comparing the two 
instances as the only ones in his life when " any- 
thing under reality " had been able to move him so 
powerfully. — T. Moore ('' Life of Byron"). 

His fondness for dogs and other animals is often 
mentioned by those who knew him intimatel}^ In 
a letter from Ravenna, in 182 1, Shelley writes : 
" Lord B.'s establishment consists, besides servants, 
of ten horses, eight enormous dogs, three monkeys, 
five cats, an eagle, a crow, and a falcon ; and all 
these, except the horses, walk about the house, 
which every now and then resounds with their un- 
arbitrated quarrels. . . . After I have sealed 
my letter, I find that my enumeration of the ani- 
mals in this Circaean Palace was defective, and that 
in a material point. I have just met on the grand 
staircase five peacocks, two guinea-hens, and an 
Egyptian crane. I wonder who all these animals 
were before they were changed into these shapes." 
1—3 



A lover of 
storms. 



Powerfully 

affected by 

Kean's act' 

ing. 



Fondness 

for 
animals. 



34 



BYROjV. 



A little 
supper. 



Unable to 
taste. 



—(Prose Works of P. B. Shelley, ed. by H. B. For- 
man, vol. 4, p. 222.)^ 

The supper . . . took place at Watier's ; 

. . and as it may convey some idea of his 
irregular mode of diet, and thus account in part for 
the frequent derangement of his health, I shall here 
attempt, from recollection, a description of the 
supper on this occasion. . . . Having taken 
upon me to order the repast, and knowing that 
Lord Byron, for the last two days, had done noth- 
ing towards sustenance, beyond eating a few bis- 
cuits, and (to appease appetite) chewing mastic, I 
desired that we should have a good supply of, at 
least, two kinds of fish. My companion, however, 
confined himself to lobsters, and of these finished 
two or three to his OAvn share, — interposing, some 
two or three times, a small liquer-glass of strong 
white brandy, sometimes a tumbler of very hot 
water, and then pure brandy again, to the amount 
of near half a dozen of the latter, without which, 
alternately with the hot water, he appeared to think 
the lobster could not be digested. After this we had 
claret, of which, having despatched two bottles be- 
tween us, at about four o'clock in the morning 
we parted. — T. Moore (^' Life of Byron"). 

Byron had no palate. Trelawny could mix his 
gin-and-water as weak as he chose without By- 
ron's taking any notice of it whatever ; once he 



^ Shelley (Percy B.). Works in Verse and Prose. Ed. by H. 
B. Forman. 8 vols., 8vo. London, 1880. 



BYRON. 



35 



purposely missed out the gin altogether, and Byron 
seemed struck by it only after several sips. — W. M. 
RossETTi (" Talks with Trelawny," Athenceum, July 
15, 1882). 

Rev. Alexander Dyce, in his volume of Rogers' 
table-talk (published anonymously)/ gives this 
story, as told by Rogers : '' Neither Moore nor my- 
self had ever seen Byron when it was settled that he 
should dine at my house to meet Moore: nor was he 
known by sight to Campbell, who, happening to call 
upon me that morning, consented to join the party. 
. . . When we sat down to dinner I asked Byron 
if he would take soup ? *No ; he never took soup.' 
— Would he take some fish ? ' No ; he never took 
fish.' Presently I asked him if he would eat some 
mutton? 'No ; he never ate mutton.' I then asked 
him if he would take a glass of wine ? ' No ; he 
never tasted wine.' — It was now necessary to in- 
quire what he did eat and drink ; and the answer 
was, * Nothing but hard biscuits and soda-water.' 
Unfortunately, neither hard biscuits nor soda-water 
were at hand ; and he dined upon potatoes bruised 
down on his plate and drenched with vinegar. 
. . . Some days after, meeting Hobhouse, I 
said to him, '■ How long will Lord Byron persevere 
in his present diet ? ' He replied, ' Just as long as 
you continue to notice it.' I did not then know, 
what I now know to be a fact, — that Byron, after 
leaving my house, had gone to a club in St. James' 
Street, and eaten a hearty meat-supper." 

^ Dyce (Rev. Alexander). Recollections of the Table-talk of 
Samuel Rogers. i2mo. London, 1856. 



Unable to 
taste. 



A dinner 

7vith 

Rogers. 



36 



BYRON. 



Melancholy 
and sus- 
j)icious. 



Convivial- 
ity. 



He was often melancholy, almost gloomy. When I 
observed him in this humor I used either to wait 
till it went off of its own accord, or till some natural 
and easy mode occurred of leading him into con- 
versation, when the shadows almost always left his 
countenance, like the mist arising from a landscape. 
I think I also remarked in his temper starts of sus- 
picion, when he seemed to pause and consider 
whether there had not been a secret and perhaps 
offensive meaning in something that was said to 
him. In this case I also judged it best to let his 
mind, like a troubled spring, work itself clear, 
which it did in a minute or two. A downright 
steadiness of manner v\^as the way to his good opin- 
ion. Will Rose, looking by accident at his feet, 
saw him scowling furiously ; but on his showing no 
consciousness, his lordship resumed his easy man- 
ner. — Sir Walter Scott (quoted in Moore's " Life 
of Byron "). 

Byron is of a very suspicious nature ; he dreads 
imposition on all points, declares that he forgoes 
many things, from the fear of being cheated in the 
purchase, and is afraid to give way to the natural 
impulses of his character, lest he should be duped or 
mocked. — Countess of Blessington ('' Conversa- 
tions of Lord Byron "). 

It is a credit to my noble acquaintance, that he 
was by far the pleasantest when he had got wine in 
his head. . . . When in his cups, which was 
not often, nor immoderately, he was inclined to be 
tender ; but not weakly so, nor lachrymose. I know 



BYRON. 



37 



not how it might have been with everybody, but he 
paid me the compliment of being excited to his very 
best feelings ; and when I rose late to go away, he 
would hold me down, and say with a look of entreaty, 
"Not yet." Then it was that I seemed to talk with 
the proper natural Byron as he ought to have been ; 
. . . Next morning it was all gone. His intimacy 
with the worst part of mankind had got him again 
in its chilling crust ; and nothing remained but to 
despair and joke. In wine he would volunteer an 
imitation of somebody, generally of Incledon. He 
was not a good mimic in the detail, but he could 
give a lively broad sketch ; and over his cups his 
imitations were good-natured, which was seldom the 
case at other times. — Leigh Hunt ("Lord Byron 
and his Contemporaries "). 

William Bankes talked with much affection of 
Byron ; his sensitiveness to criticism. When Bankes 
v/as with him in Venice, he told Byron of some Mr. 

S (then also in Venice, and, as Byron said, " a 

salt fish seller ") who declared that Don Jua7i was 
all " Grub Street." The effect of this on Byron was 
so great, that Bankes is of opinion (as indeed, Byron 
himself told him) that it stopped Don Juan for some 

time. " That damned Mr. S ," he used to say. 

. . . He also showed Bankes one day a drawer 
containing the MS. of Don Juan^ saying : '' Look, 

here is Mr. S 's Grub Street." — Thomas Moore 

(^' Journal").^ 

' Moore (Thomas). Memoirs, Journal, and Correspondence. 
Edited by Lord John Russell. 8 vols., 8vo. London, 1853-56. 



Convivial- 
ity. 



Sensitive- 
lie ss to 
criticism. 



38 



BYRON. 



Dreads to be 

thought sen- 

timental. 



Affectation 
of insensi- 
bility. 



The anxiety with which, at all periods of his life, 
but particularly at the present,^ he sought to repel 
the notion that, except when under the actual in- 
spiration of writing, he was at all influenced by 
poetical associations, very frequently displayed 
itself. "You must have been highly gratified," said 
a gentleman to him, '' by the classical remains and 
recollections which you met with in your visit to 
Ithaca." — "You quite mistake me," answered Lord 
Byron — '* I have no poetical humbug about me ; I 
am too old for that. Ideas of that sort are confined 
to rhyme."— T. Moore (" Life of Byron "). 

Lord Byron was our cicerone, and took us to 
Nervi, one of the prettiest rides imaginable and 
commanding a fine view of the sea. He pointed 
out the spots whence the views were the most beau- 
tiful, but with a coldness of expression that was re- 
markable. Observing that I smiled at this insensi- 
bility, he too smiled, and said, " I suppose you 
expected me to explode into some enthusiastic ex- 
clamations on the sea, the scenery, etc., such as 
poets indulge in, or rather are supposed to indulge 
in ; but the truth is, I hate cant of every kind, and 
the cant of the love of nature as much as any 
other." So to avoid the appearance of one affecta- 
tion he assumes another, that of not admiring. He 
especially eschews every symptom indicative of his 
poetical feelings ; yet, nevertheless, they break out 
continually in various ways when he is off his 
guard. — Countess of Blessington (" Idler in Italy"). 



\ 



In 1823, during liis Grecian campaign. 



BYRON. 



39 



Perceiving, as he \valked the deck, a small yatha- 
gan, or Turkish dagger, on one of the benches, he 
took it up, unsheathed it, and having stood for a 
few moments contemplating the blade, was heard 
to say, in an under voice, " I should like to know 
how a person feels after committing a murder ! " 
— T. Moore (" Life of Byron "). 

Other testimony as to Byron's tendency to be 
melodramatic comes from two artists, the sculptor, 
Thorwaldsen, and the painter, W. E. West. Hans 
Christian Andersen, in his " Story of My Life," ^ re- 
ports a story told him by Thorwaldsen, as follows : 
*'When I was about to make Byron's statue, he 
placed himself just opposite to me, and began im- 
mediately to assume quite another countenance to 
what was customary to him. 'Will you not sit 
still ? ' said I ; 'but you must not make these faces.' 

* It is my expression,' said Byron. ' Indeed ? ' 
said I, and then I made him as I wished, and every- 
body said, when it was finished, that I had hit the 
likeness. When Byron, however, saw it, he said, 

* It does not resemble me at all ; I look more un- 
happy ! ' " Vv^est, who painted his portrait, says : 
*' He was a bad sitter ; he assumed a countenance 
that did not belong to him, as though he were 
thinking of a frontispiece for Childe Harold. " 

Byron had one pre-eminent fault, a fault which 
must be considered as deeply criminal by every one 



' Andersen (Hans Christian). Story of My Life to 1S67. i6mo. 
New York, 1871. 



Melodra- 
matic J>os- 



Srif- 
lafuier. 



40 



byron; 



Self- 
slander. 



" There al- 
loays 7V.IS a 
jtiailness 171 
thefamily^'' 



who does not, as I do, believe it to have resulted 
from monomania. He had a morbid love of a bad 
reputation. There was hardly an offence of which 
he would not, with perfect indifference accuse him- 
self. An old school-fellow, who met him on the 
Continent, told me that he would continually write 
paragraphs against himself in the foreign journals, 
and delight in their republication by the English 
newspapers as in the success of a practical joke. 
. . . If I could remember, and v/ere willing to re- 
peat, the various misdoings which I have from time 
to time heard him attribute to himself, I could fill a 
volume. But I never believed them. I very soon be- 
came aware of this strange idiosyncrasy. It puzzled 
me to account for it ; but there it was — a sort of 
diseased and distorted vanity. 

The same eccentric spirit would induce him to 
report things which were false with regard to his 
family, which anybody else would have concealed, 
though true. He told me more than once that his 
father was insane and killed himself. I shall never 
forget the manner in which he first told me this. 
While washing his hands, and singing a gay Neapol- 
itan air, he stopped, looked round at me, and said, 
" There always was a madness in the family." Then 
after continuing his washing and his song, as if 
speaking of a matter of the slightest indifference, 
" My father cut his throat." ... In this in- 
stance I had no doubt that the fact was as he related 
it, but in speaking of it a few years since to an old 
lady in whom I had perfect confidence, she assured 
me that it was not so. . . . 

Except this love of an ill name ... I have 



BYRON. 



41 



no personal knowledge whatever of any evil act or 
evil disposition of Lord Byion's. I once said this 
to a gentleman, who was well acquainted with Lord 
Byron's London life. He expressed himself as- 
tonished at what I said. " Well," I replied, " do 
you know any harm of him but what he told you 
himself ? " " Oh, yes, a hundred things ! " "I don't 
want you to tell me a hundred things, I shall be 
content with one." Flere the conversation was in- 
terrupted. We were at dinner — there was a large 
party, and the subject was again renewed at table. 
But afterwards, in the drawing-room, Mr. Drury 
came up to me and said, " I have been thinking of 
what you were saying at dinner. I do 7iot know any 
harm of Byron but what he has told me of himself." 
— William Harness (L'Estrange's " Life of Har- 
ness ").^ 

To such a perverse length . . . did he carry 
this fancy for self-defamation, that if (as sometimes, 
in his moments of gloom, he persuaded himself), 
there was any tendency to derangement in his men- 
tal constitution, on this point alone could it be 
pronounced to have manifested itself. In the early 
part of my acquaintance with him, when he most 
gave way to this humor, ... I have known 
him more than once, as we have sat together after 
dinner, and he was, at the time, perhaps, a little 
under the influence of wine, to fall seriously into 
this sort of dark and self-accusing mood, and throw 



^ L'Estranrje (Rev. A. G.). The Literary Life of the Rev. Will- 
iam Harness. London, 1870. 



" There al- 
ways was ii 
madness in 
thefainilyP 



Fond of a 

had rej>uta' 

Hon. 



42 



BY RON: 



Fond of a 
bad reputa- 
tion. 



Love of 
mystifica- 
tion. 



out hints of his past life with an air of gloom and 
mystery designed evidently to awaken curiosity and 
interest. — T. Moore ('' Life of Byron "). 



It is difficult to judge when Lord Byron is serious 
or not. He has a habit of mystifying, that might 
impose upon many, but that can be detected by 
examining his physiognomy ; for a sort of mock 
gravity, now and then broken by a malicious smile, 
betrays when he is speaking for effect, and not giv- 
ing utterance to his real sentiments. . . . The 
love of mystification is so strong in Byron, that 
he is continually letting drop mysterious hints of 
events in his past life : as if to excite curiosity, he 
assumes, on those occasions, a look and air suited 
to the insinuation conveyed ; if it has excited the 
curiosity of his hearers, he is satisfied, looks still 
more mysterious, and changes the subject ; but if it 
fails to rouse curiosity, he becomes evidently dis- 
composed and sulky, stealing sly glances at the 
person he had been endeavoring to mystify, to ob- 
serve the effect he has produced. On such occa- 
sions I have looked at him a little maliciously, and 
laughed, vv^ithout asking a single question ; and I 
have often succeeded in making him laugh too at 
those mystifications, manqiiee as I called them. 
. . . I am sure that if ten individuals undertook 
the task of describing Byron, no two, of the ten, 
would agree in their verdict respecting him, or con- 
vey any portrait that resembled the other, and yet 
the description of each might be correct, according 
to his or her received opinion ; but the truth is, the 
chameleon-like character or manner of Byron ren- 



BYJ^ON. 



43 



ders it difficult to portray him ; and the pleasure he 
seems to take in misleading his associates in their 
estimate of him increases the difficulty of the task. 
This extraordinary fancy of his has so often str-uck 
me, that I expect to see all the persons who have 
lived with him giving portraits, each unlike the 
other, and yet all bearing a resemblance to the 
orisfinal at some one time. — Countess of Blessing- 
TON ("Conversations of Lord Byron"). 

He declares that, in addition to his other failings, 
avarice is now established. This new vice, like all 
the others he attributes to himself, he talks of as one 
would name those of an acquaintance, in a sort of 
deprecating, yet half mocking tone ; as much as to 
say, you see I know all my faults better than you 
do, though I don't choose to correct them : indeed, it 
has often occurred to me, that he brings forward his 
defects, as if in anticipation of some one else expos- 
ing them, which he would not like ; as, though he af- 
fects the contrary, he is jealous of being found fault 
with, and shows it in a thousand v/ays. He affects 
to dislike hearing his works praised or referred to ; 
I say affects, because I am sure the dislike is not 
real or natural, as he who loves praise, as Byron 
evidently does, in other things, cannot dislike it for 
that in which he must be conscious it is deserved. 
He refers to his feats in horsemanship, shooting at 
a mark, and swimming, in a way that proves he 
likes to be complimented on them ; and nothing 
appears to give him more satisfaction than being 
considered a man of fashion, who had great success 
in fashionable society in London, when he resided 



Love of 

inystijica- 

tioii. 



Confessing 

vices. 

Cojirting 

admiration 



44 



byron: 



Fickleness 

and ijista- 

bility. 



there. — Countess of Blessington (" Conversations 
of Lord Byron "). 

Byron seems to take a peculiar pleasure in ridi- 
culing sentiment and romantic feelings ; and yet the 
day after will betray both, to an extent that appears 
impossible to be sincere, to those who had heard his 
previous sarcasms : that he is sincere, is evident, as 
his eyes fill w4th tears, his voice becomes tremulous, 
and his whole manner evinces that he feels what he 
says. All this appears so inconsistent, that it de- 
stroys sympathy, or if it does not quite do that, it 
makes one angry with oneself for giving way to it 
for one who is never for two days of the same way 
of thinking, or at least expressing himself. He talks 
for effect, likes to excite astonishment, and certainly 
destroys in the minds of his auditors all confidence 
in his stability of character. This must, I am cer- 
tain, be felt by all who have lived much in his 
society ; and the impression is not satisfactory. 
. . . There are days when he excites so strong 
an interest and sympathy, by showing such un- 
doubtable proofs of good feeling, that every pre- 
vious impression to his disadvantage fades away, and 
one is vexed w^ith oneself for ever having harbored 
them. But alas ! *'the morrow comes," and he is no 
longer the same being. Some disagreeable letter, 
review, or new example of the slanders w4th w^hich 
he has been for years assailed, changes the whole 
current of his feelings — renders him reckless. Sar- 
donic, and as unlike the Byron of the day before as if 
they had nothing in com.mon, — nay, he seems deter- 
mined to efface any good impression he might have 



BYRON. 



45 



made, and appears angry with himself for having 
yielded to the kindly feelings that gave birth to it. 
. . . This instability of opinion, or expression of 
opinion, of Byron, destroys all confidence in him, and 
precludes the possibility of those, who live much in 
his society, feeling that sentiment of confiding se- 
curity in him, without which a real regard cannot 
subsist. — Countess of Blessington (" Conversations 
of Lord B)^ron "). 



There was . 
young nobleman 



. about this extraordinary 
something that, even while he 



w^as agreeable, checked all confidence ; for though 
his temper was not decidedly bad, it was skinless 
and capricious, and I was not always in a hum.or to 
accord that indulgence which he constantly required. 
Of all the men I have ever knowm, he had the least 
equanimity, and yet in his felicitous moments he 
was singularly amusing, often interesting. To me 
there was an agreeable excitement frequently pro- 
duced by his conversation, but he claimed more 
deference than I was disposed to grant. — John Galt 
(" Autobiography ").' 

Few men possessed more companionable qualities 
than Lord Byron did occasionally : and seen at in- 
tervals, in those felicitous moments, I imagine it 
would have been difficult to have said, that a more 
interesting companion had been previously met 
with. But he was not always in that fascinating 



^ Byron, when thus described, was about twenty-three years old. 
2 Gait (John). Autobiography. 2 vols., Svo. London, 1833. 



Fickleftess 
and insta- 
bility. 



Irritable 
and exact- 



No depend- 
ence to be 

placed upon 
his moods. 



46 



BYRGN. 



No depend- 
ence to be 

placed upon 
his moods. 



Fondness 
/or arms. 



state of pleasantry : he was as often otherwise ; and 
no two individuals could be more distinct from each 
other than Byron in his gayety and his gloom. This 
antithesis was the great cause of that diversity of 
opinion concerning him, which has so much divided 
his friends and adversaries. — John Galt (" Life of 
Byron "). 

Those only, who lived for some time with him, 
could believe that a man's temper, Proteus like, was 
capable of assuming so many shapes. It may liter- 
ally be said, that at different hours of the day ?ie 
metamorphosed himself into four or more individ- 
uals, each possessed of the most opposite qualities. 
. . . In the course of the day he might become 
the most morose, and the most gay ; and the most 
melancholy, and the most frolicsome ; the most gen- 
erous, and the most penurious ; the most benevolent, 
and the most misanthropic ; . . . the most 
gentle being in existence, and the most irascible. — 
Julius Millingen (" Memoirs of Affairs of Greece "). 

Moore tells us that Byron constantly had arms of 
some kind about him ; it was his practice, he says, 
"when quite a boy, to carry at all -times small 
loaded pistols in his waistcoat pockets." Elsewhere 
Moore says : " Such a passion, indeed, had he for 
arms of every description, that there generally lay a 
small sword by the side oi his bed, with which he used 
to amuse himself by thrusting it through his bed- 
hangings." The Countess of Blessington says, in 
her " Idler in Ital)^," that a boatman at Geneva, 
employed by Byron, told her that the poet never 



i 



byron: 



47 



entered his boat \vithout a case of pistols, which he 
always kept by him. Byron was very fond of 
shooting at a mark, and was a capital shot. 

Byron has little taste for the fine arts ; and when 
they are the subject of conversation, betrays an ig- 
norance very surprising in a man who has travelled 
so much. He says that he feels art, while others 
p?'ate about it ; but his neglect of the beautiful 
specimens of it here goes far to prove the contrary. 
— Countess of Blessington ("Idler in Italy"). 

Lord Byron once wrote me a letter ... in 
which he pronounced " Reubens " to be *' a dauber." 
He knew so little of pictures, that you see he had 
not even read enough about the very names of the 
artists to be able to spell them. — Leigh Hunt (ex- 
tract from a letter). 

I should say that a bad and vulgar taste predomi- 
nated in all Byron's equipments, whether in dress 
or in furniture. I saw his bed at Genoa, when I 
passed through in 1826, and it certainly was the 
most gaudily vulgar thing I ever saw ; the curtains 
in the worst taste, and the cornice having his family 
motto, " Crede Byron," surmounted by baronial 
coronets. His carriages and his livery were in the 
same bad taste, having an affectation of finery, but 
mesqui?t in the details, and tawdry in the ensemble j 
and it w^as evident that he piqued himself on them, 
by the complacency with which they were referred 
to. These trifles are touched upon as being char- 
acteristic of the man, and would have been passed 



Fondness 
Jbr arvts. 



Indiffer- 
ence to the 
Jine arts. 



Vulgar 
taste. 



48 



BYRON. 



Vulgar 
taste. 



Pride of 
rank. 



by, as unworthy of notice, had he not shown that 
they occupied a considerable portion of his atten- 
tion. He has CA^en asked us if they were not rich 
and handsome, and then remarked that no wonder 
they were so, as they had cost him a great deal of 
money. — Countess of Blessington (" Conversations 
of Lord Byron "). 

Byron came to see us to-day, and appeared ex- 
tremely discomposed ; after half an hour's conver- 
sation on indifferent subjects, he at length broke out 
with, " Only fancy my receiving a tragedy to-day 

dedicated as follows — ^* From George to George 

Byron ! ' This is being cool with a vengeance. I 
never w^as more provoked. How stupid, how igno- 
rant, to pass over my rank ! " . . . Were he but 
sensible how much the Lo7'd is overlooked in the 
Foet he would be less vain of his rank ; but as it is, 
this vanity is very prominent, and resembles more 
the pride of 2, parvenu^ than the calm dignity of an 
ancient aristocrat. It is also evident that he attaches 
importance to the appendages of rank and station. 
The trappings of luxury, to which a short use ac- 
customs every one, seem to please him ; he observes, 
nay, comments upon them, and oh ! mortifying con- 
clusion, appears at least for the moment to think 
more highly of their possessors. As his own mode of 
life is so extremely simple, this seems the more ex- 
traordinary ; but everything in him is contradict- 
ory and extraordinary. — Countess of Blessington 
("Conversations of Lord Byron "). 

One day that Byron dined with us, his chasseur, 



BYRON. 



49 



while we were at table, demanded to speak with 
him : he left the room, and returned in a few min- 
utes in a state of violent agitation, pale with anger, 
and looking as I had never before seen him look, 
though I had often seen him angry. He told us 
that his servant had come to tell him that he must 
pass the gate of Genoa (his house being outside 
the town) before half past ten o'clock, as orders 
were given that no one was to be allowed to pass 
after. This order, which had no personal refer- 
ence to him, he conceived to be expressly levelled 
at him, and it rendered him furious : he seized a 



pen, 



and commenced a letter to our minister — tore 



two or three letters one after the other, before he 
had written one to his satisfaction ; and, in short, 
betrayed such ungovernable rage, as to astonish all 
who were present ; he seemed very much disposed 
to enter into a personal contest with the authori- 
ties ; and we had some difficulty in persuading him 
to leave the business wholly in the hands of Mr. 
Hill, the English Minister, who would arrange it 
much better. — Countess of Blessington (" Conver- 
sations of Lord Byron"). 

Moore tells us that on one occasion *' in a fit of 
vexation and rage ... he furiously dashed his 
watch, a favorite old watch which had been his 
companion since boyhood, upon the hearth, and 
ground it to pieces among the ashes with the 
poker."' 



^ Trelawny, in an interview reported in the Whitehall Review, 
in 1880, said that he did not think that Bjnron ever wore a watch. 
1—4 



Unreason- 
able rage. 



Destroying 
his luatc/i. 



50 



BYRON'. 



FliJ>pancy, 



At Venice 
in i8i8. 



I had expected to find him a dignified, cold, re- 
served, and haughty person, resembling those mys- 
terious personages he so loves to paint in his works, 
and with whom he has been so often identified by 
the good-natured world ; but nothing can be more 
different ; for were I to point out the prominent de- 
fect of Lord Byron, I should say it was flippancy, 
and a total want of that natural self-possession and 
dignity which ought to characterize a man of birth 
and education. — Countess of Blessington {" Con- 
versations of Lord Byron "). 

Occasionally, indeed, the fervor of the poet 
warmed his expression, and always the fire of 
genius kindled his eye ; but, in general, an affecta- 
tion of fashion pervaded his manner, and the insou- 
ciance of satiety spread a languor over his conversa- 
tion. He was destitute of that simplicity of thought 
and manner which is the attendant of the highest 
intellect, and which was so conspicuous in Scott. 
He was always aiming at effect : and the effect he 
desired was rather that of fashion than of genius ; 
he sought rather to astonish than impress. He 
seemed ^/^i-/with every enjoyment of life, affected 
rather the successful roue than the great poet, and 
deprecated beyond everything the cant of morality. 
The impression he wished to leave on the mind was 
that of a man who had tasted to the dregs of all the 
enjoyments of life, and above all of high life, and 
thought everything else mere balderdash and affec- 
tation. — Sir a. Alison ("Autobiography").^ 

- Alison (SirArchibald). Some Account of my Life and Writings. 
An Autobiography. 2 vols., 8vo. London, 18S3. 



BYRON'. 



51 



His superstition was remarkable. I do not mean 
in the ordinary sense, because it was superstition, 
but because it was petty and old-womanish. He 
believed in the ill-luck of Fridays, and was seriously 
disconcerted if anything was to be done on that 
frightful day of the week. Had he been a Roman, 
he would have startled at crows, while he made a 
jest of augurs. — Leigh Hunt ("Lord Byron and his 
Contemporaries "). 

He is extremely superstitious, and seems offended 
with those who cannot, or will not, partake this 
weakness. He has frequently touched on this sub- 
ject, and tauntingly observed to me, that I must 
believe myself wiser than him, because I was not 
superstitious. . . . Byron is, I believe, sincere in 
his belief in supernatural appearances ; he assumes 
a grave and mysterious air when he talks on the 
subject, which he is fond of doing. . . . He is 
also superstitious about days, and other trifling 
things, believes in lucky and unlucky days, dislikes 
undertaking anything on a Friday, helping or being 
helped to salt at table, spilling salt or oil, letting 
bread fall, and breaking mirrors ; in short he gives 
way to a thousand fantastical notions, that prove that 
even V esprit le plus fort has its weak side. — Countess 
OF Blessington (" Conversations of Lord Byron "). 

Went on the water in the evening. Byron was 
much inclined to accompany us, but when we were 
about to embark, a superstitious presentiment in- 
duced him to give up the water party ; which set us 
all laughing at him, which he bore very well, al- 



Supersti- 
tion. 



Instances of 

his supe*-- 

stitioH. 



52 



BYRON. 



Inst af tees of 
his super- 
stition. 



Niggardli- 
ness. 



though he half smiled and said, '* No, no, good 
folk, you shall not laugh me out of my superstition, 
even though you may think me a fool for it." ^ — 
Countess of Blessington {" Idler in Italy"). 

All that was now left of our Pisan circle estab- 
lished themselves at Albano^ — Byron, Leigh Hunt, 
and Mrs. Shelley. I took up my quarters in the 
city of palaces. The fine spirit that had animated 
and held us together was gone ! Left to our own 
devices, we degenerated apace. Shelley's solidity 
had checked Byron's flippancy, and induced him oc- 
casionally to act justly, and talk seriously ; now he 
seemed more sordid and selfish than ever. He be- 
haved shabbily to Mrs. Shelley ; I might use a 
harsher epithet. In all the transactions between 
Shelley and Byron in which expenses had occurred, 
and there were many, the former, as was his custom, 
had paid all, the latter promising to repay ; but as 
no one ever repaid Shelley, Byron did not see the 
necessity of his setting the example ; and now that 
Mrs. Shelley was left destitute by her husband's 
death, Byron did nothing for her. He regretted 
this when too late, for in our voyage to Greece, he 
alluded to Shelley, saying, *'Tre, you did what I 
should have done, let us square accounts to-morrow ; 
I must pay my debts." I merely observed, "Money 
is of no use at sea, and when you get on shore, you 



* Lady Blessington also tells of his having given her a pin, and 
asked her to return it to him the next day, because it was unlucky 
to give anything with a sharp point. She returned it, and he gave 
her a chain instead. 

2 After Shelley's death. 



BYRON. 



53 



will find you have none to spare ; " he probably 
thought so too, for he said nothing more on the 
subject. — E. J. Trelawny (" Records of Shelley, 
Byron, etc."). 

In speaking of the foolish charge of avarice brought 
against Lord Byron by some who resented thus his 
not suffering them to impose on his generosity, Colo- 
nel Napier says, '' I never knew a single instance of 
it while he was here.^ I saw only a judicious gene- 
rosity in all that he did. He would not allow him- 
self to be robbed., but he gave profusely when he 
thought he was doing good. . . . He gave a 
vast deal of money to the Greeks in various ways." 
— T; Moore (" Life of Byron"). 

It is undoubtedly true that Byron was often gene- 
rous to a lavish degree. He was particularly kind 
to his servants, and succeeded in winning and retain- 
ing their devotion. The varying testimony upon 
this point is but another illustration of the difficulties 
which the student of Byron's life meets at every step. 

May 22, 1823. We have purchased Byron's 
yacht, the Bolivar. . . . We agreed to leave the 
nomination of the price to Mr. Barry, but Byron 
contended for a larger sum than that gentleman 
thought it worth. The poet is certainly fond of 
money, and this growing passion displays itself on 
many occasions. He has so repeatedly and earn- 
estly begged me to let him have my horse Mame- 



^ In Greece. 



Niggardli- 
ness. 



Witnesses 
disagree as 
to his liber- 
ality a7id 
vieaii?iess. 



Two 
bargains. 



54 



BYRON. 



Two 
bargains. 



In fashion- 
able society. 



luke to take to Greece . . . that I have, 
although very unwilling to part from him, con- 
sented. 

23d. A letter from Byron, saying that he cannot 
afford to give more than eighty pounds for Mame- 
luke. I paid a hundred guineas, and would rather 
lose two hundred than part with him. How strange, 
to beg and entreat to have the horse resigned to him, 
and then name a less price than he cost ! — Countess 
OF Blessington ("Idler in Italy"). 

I happened to be in London when Lord Byron's 
fame was reaching its height, and saw much of him 
in society. . . . Though he was far from being 
a great or ambitious talker, his presence at this time 
made the fortune of any dinner or drawing-room 
party for which it could be obtained ; and was al- 
ways known by a crowd gathered round him, the 
female portion generally predomxinating. I have 
seen many of these epidemic impulses of fashion in 
London society, but none more marked than this. 
There was a certain haughtiness or seeming indif- 
ference in his manner of receiving the homage ten- 
dered him, which did not however prevent him 
from resenting its withdrawal — an inconsistency not 
limited to the case of Lord Byron.* Though 
brought into frequent intercourse by our common 
travels in the East, my intimacy with him went little 
beyond this. He was not a man with whom it was 
easy to cultivate friendship. He had that double or 
conflicting nature, well pictured by Dante, which 

^ See p. 126. 



BYjROX. 



55 



rendered difficult any close or continued relations 
with him. — Sir Henry Holland (" Recollections ").^ 

Byron, at first, had been more eager than Shelley 
for Leigh Hunt's arrival in Italy to edit and contrib- 
ute to the proposed new Review, and so continued 
until his English correspondents had worked on his 
fears. They did not oppose, for they knew his 
temper too well, but artfully insinuated that he was 
jeopardizing his fame and fortune, etc., etc. Shel- 
ley found Byron so irritable, so shuffling and equivo- 
cating, whilst talking v/ith him on the fulfilment of 
his promises to Leigh Hunt, — that, but for imperil- 
ling Hunt's prospects, Shelley's intercourse with 
Byron would have abruptly terminated. — E. J. Tre- 
LAWNY (" Records of Shelley, Byron," etc.). 



Byron talked to-day of Leigh Hunt, regretted his 
ever having embarked in the Liberal, and said 
that it had drawn a nest of hornets on him ; but ex- 
pressed a very good opinion of the talents and prin- 
ciple of Mr. Hunt, though, as he said, '' our tastes 
are so opposite, that we are totally unsuited to 
each other." ... I can perceive that he wishes 
Mr. Hunt and his family away. It appears to me 
that Byron is a person who, without reflection, 
would form engagements which, when condemned 
by his friends or advisers, he would gladly get out of 
without considering the means, or, at least, without 
reflecting on the humiliation such a desertion must 



^ Holland (Sir Heniy). 
don, 1872. 



Recollections of Past Life. 8vo. Lon- 



Treatment 

of 
Leigh Hunt. 



Relations 

■with 

Leigh Hunt. 



56 



byron: 



Relntto7is 

•with 

LeighHunt. 



Life at 
J 'is a. 



inflict on the persons he had associated with him. 
He gives me the idea of a man, who feeling himself 
in such a dilemma, would become cold and ungra- 
cious to the parties with whom he so stood, before 
he had mental courage sufficient to abandon them. 
I may be wrong, but the whole of his manner of 
talking of Mr. Hunt gives me this impression, 
though he has not said what might be called an 
unkind word of him. — Countess of Blessington 
(" Conversations of Lord Byron "). 

Our manner of life v/as this. Lord Byron, who 
used to sit up at night, writing " Don Juan " (which he 
did under the influence of gin and water), rose late 
in the morning. He breakfasted ; read ; lounged 
about, singing an air, generally out of Rossini, and 
in a swaggering style, though in a voice at once 
small and veiled ; then took a bath and was dressed ; 
and coming down-stairs, was heard, still singing, in 
the court -yard, out of which the garden ascended at 
the back of the house. The servants at the same 
time brought out two or three chairs. My study, a 
little room in a corner, with an orange tree peeping 
in at the window, looked upon this court-yard. I 
was generally at my writing when he came down, 
and either acknowledged his presence by getting up 
and saying something from the window, or he called 
out " Leontius ! " ^ and came halting up to the win- 
dow with some joke, or other challenge to conver- 
sation. (Readers of good sense will do me the jus- 
tice of discerning where anything is spoken of in a 



^ A name given to Leigh Hunt by Shelley, 



BYRON. 



57 



tone of objection, and where it is only brought in 
as requisite to the truth of the picture.) His dress, 
as at Monte Nero, was a nankeen jacket, with white 
waistcoat and trowsers, and a cap, either velvet or 
linen, with a shade to it. In his hand was a tobacco- 
box, from which he helped himself like unto a ship- 
man. . . . We then lounged about, or sat and 
talked, Madame Guiccioli with her sleek tresses de- 
scending after her toilet to join us. . . . 

In the course of an hour or two, being an early 
riser, I used to go in to dinner. Lord Byron either 
stayed a little loriger, or went up-stairs to his books 
and his couch. When the heat of the day declined, 
we rode out, either on horseback or in a barouche, 
generally towards the forest. He was a good rider, 
graceful, and kept a firm seat. . . . Of an even- 
ing I seldom saw him. He recreated himself in the 
balcony, or with a book ; and at night, when I went 
to bed, he was just thinking of setting to work with 
" Don Juan." — Leigh Hunt ^ (" Lord Byron and his 
Contemporaries "). 



' It seems only fair to state, in connection with the numerous 
extracts from Leigh Hunt's "Lord Byron and Some of his Con- 
temporaries," that the author made a sort of apology, many years 
afterv/ards, in his autobiography, for the severity of his observa- 
tions upon Byron. He says, in alluding to his former work, "I 
was then a young man. ... I was agitated by grief and 
anger. ... I am now free from anger. ... I am sorry 
that I ever wrote a syllable respecting Lord B5rron which might 
have been spared." The editor, however, feels fully justified in 
making use of these very severe criticisms ; for Leigh Hunt also 
says, in his autobiography, "I do not mean that I ever wrote any 
fictions about him. I wrote nothing which I did not feel to be 
true, or think so." 



Life at 
Fisa, 



58 



DYRON. 



Hunfs dis- 
section of 
Byro7i : 
Lack of ad- 
dress. 



Jealous of 

sufierlority 

in others. 



If Lord Byron had been a man of address, he 
would have been a kinder man. He never heartily 
forgave either you or himself for his deficiency on 
this point ; and hence a good deal of his ill-temper 
and his carelessness of your feelings. By any means, 
fair or foul, he was to make up for the disadvan- 
tage ; and with all his exaction of conventional pro- 
priety from others, he could set it at naught in his 
own conduct in the most remarkable manner. He 
had an incontinence, I believe unique, in talking of 
his affairs, and showing you other people's letters. 
He would even make you presents of them ; and I 
have accepted one or two that they might go no 
farther. — Leigh Hunt (*' Lord Byron and his Con- 
temporaries "). 

We have been told of authors who were jealous 
even of beautiful women, because they divided at- 
tention. I do not think Lord Byron would Iiave 
entertained a jealousy of this sort. He would have 
thought the women too much occupied with him- 
self. But he would infallibly have been jealous, 
had the beautiful woman been a wit, or drawn a 
circle round her piano-forte. With men I have seen 
him hold the most childish contests for superiority ; 
so childish that had it been possible for him to 
divest himself of a sense of his pretensions and 
public character, they would have exhibited some- 
thing of the conciliating simplicity of Goldsmith. 
He would then lay imaginary wagers ; and in a 
style which you would not have looked for in high 
life, thrust out his chin, and give knowing, self- 
estimating nods of the head, half nod and half shake. 



BYROA^. 



59 



such as boys playing at chuck-farthing give, when 
they say, "Come, I tell you what now!" A fat 
dandy who came upon us at Genoa, and pretended 
to be younger than he was, and to wear his own 
hair, discomposed him for the day. He declaimed 
against him in so deploring a tone, and uttered the 
word " wig " so often, that my two eldest boys, who 
were in the next room, were obliged to stifle their 
laughter. — Leigh Hunt ("Lord Byron and his Con- 
temporaries "). 

He was anxious to show you that he possessed no 
Shakespeare or Milton; *' because," he said, "he 
had been accused of borrowing from them ! " He 
affected to doubt whether Shakespeare was so great 
a genius as he has been taken for, and whether 
fashion had not a great deal to do with it. . . . 
Spenser he could not read ; at least he said so. All 
the gusto of that most poetical of the poets went 
with him for nothing. I lent him a volume of the 
" Fairy Queen," and he said he would try to like it. 
Next day he brought it to my study-window, and 
said, " Here, Hunt, here is your Spenser. I cannot 
see anything in him ; " and he seemed anxious that 
I bhould take it out of his hands, as if he was afraid 
of being accused of copying so poor a writer. That 
he saw nothing in Spenser is not likely ; but I really 
do not think that he saw much. Spenser was too 
much out of the world, and he too much in it. — 
Leigh Hunt ("Lord Byron and his Contem- 
poraries "). 

It has been said in a magazine, that I was always 



Jealous of 

superiority 

in others. 



Opinion of 

Shake- 
speare and 
Spcjiser. 



6o 



BYRON. 



Weak in 
arguffzent. 



Jtgotism 
and vanity. 



arguing with Lord Byron. Nothing can be more 
untrue. I was indeed almost always differing, and 
to such a degree, that I was fain to keep the differ- 
ence to myself. I differed so much, that I argued 
as little as possible. His lordship was so poor a 
logician, that he did not even provoke argument. 
When you openly differed with him, in anything 
like a zealous manner, the provocation was caused 
by something foreign to reasoning, and not pretend- 
ing to it. He did not care for argument, and, what 
is worse, was too easily convinced at the moment, 
or appeared to be so, to give any zest to disputation. 
He gravely asked me one day, "What it was that 
convinced me in argument ? " I said, I thought I 
was convinced by the strongest reasoning. '' For 
my part," said he, *'it is the last speaker that con- 
vinces me." And I believe lie spoke truly ; but 
then he was only convinced, till it was agreeable to 
him to be moved otherwise. He did not care for the 
truth. He admired only the convenient and the 
ornamental. He w^as moved to and fro, not because 
there was any ultimate purpose which he would 
give up, but solely because it was most troublesome 
to sit still and resist. — Leigh Hunt (" Lord Byron 
and his Contemporaries "). 

He would make confessions of vanity, or some 
other fault, or of inaptitude for a particular species 
of writing, partly to sound what you thought of it, 
partly that while you gave him credit for the hu- 
mility, you were to protest against the concession. 
All the perversity of his spoiled nature would 
then come into play ; and it was in these, and simi- 



BYRON. 



6i 



lar perplexities, that the main difficulty of living 
with him consisted. If you made everything tell 
in his favor, as most people did, he was pleased with 
you for not differing with him, but then nothing 
was gained. The reverse would have been an 
affront. He lumped you with the rest ; and was 
prepared to think as little of you in the particular, 
as he did of any one else. If you contested a claim, 
or allowed him to be in the right in a concession, 
he could neither argue the point nor really concede 
it. He was only mortified, and would take his re- 
venge. Lastly, if you behaved neither like his ad- 
mirers in general, nor in a sulky or disputatious 
manner, but naturally, and as if you had a right to 
your jest and your independence, whether to differ 
with or admire, and apart from an eternal considera- 
tion of himself, he thought it an assumption, and 
would perplex you with all the airs and humors of an 
insulted beauty. Thus nobody could rely, for a com- 
fortable intercourse with him, either upon admis- 
sions or non-admissions, or even upon flattery itself. 
An immeasurable vanity kept even his adorers at a 
distance ; like Xerxes enthroned, with his millions a 
mile off. And if, in a fit of desperation, he conde- 
scended to comxC closer and be fond, he laughed at 
you for thinking yourself of consequence to him, 
if you w^ere taken in ; and hated you if you stood 
out, which was to think yourself of greater con- 
sequence. Neither would a knowledge of all this, if 
you had made him conscious, have lowered his self- 
admiration a jot. He would have thought it the 
mark of a great man, — a noble capriciousness, — an 
evidence of power, v/hich none but the Alexanders 



E got is 711 
and vanity 



62 



BYRON. 



Egotistn 
and vanity. 



Vindiciive- 
ness. 



" The 
Snake.^' 



and Napoleons of the intellectual world could vent- 
ure upon. Mr. Hazlitt had some reason to call him 
"a sublime coxcomb." Who but he (or Rochester 
perhaps, whom he resembled) would have thought 
of avoiding Shakespeare, lest he should be thought 
to owe him anything ? And talking of Napoleon, — 
he delighted, when he took the additional name of 
Noel, in consequence of his marriage with an heir- 
ess, to sign himself N. B. ; "because," said he, 
" Bonaparte and I are the only public persons 
whose initials are the same." — Leigh Hunt ("Lord 
Byron and his Contemporaries "). 

Rev. Alexander Dyce, in his " Recollections of 
the Table-talk of Samuel Rogers," ^ quotes Rogers 
as follows : "In those days at least,^ Byron had no 
readiness of reply in conversation. If you hap- 
pened to let fall any observation which offended 
him, he would say nothing at the time ; but the of- 
fence would lie rankling in his mind ; and, perhaps 
a fortnight after, he Avould come out with some very 
cutting remarks upon you, giving them as his de- 
liberate opinions, the results of his experience of 
your character." 

Goethe's Mephistopheles calls the serpent that 
tempted Eve, " My aunt — the renowned snake ; " 
and as Shelley translated and repeated passages of 



^ Dyce (Rev. Alexander). Recollections of the Table-talk of 
Samuel Rogers. i2mo. London, 1856. 

^ The exact time cannot be determined, but it must have been 
prior to 18 16. 



BYRON. 



63 



"Faust," — to, as he said, impregnate Byron's 
brain, — when he came to that passage, " My aunt, 
the renowned snake," Byron said, "Then you are 
her nephew," and henceforth he often called Shelley, 
the Snake ; his bright eyes, slim figure, and noise- 
less movements, strengthened, if it did not suggest, 
the comparison. Byron was the real snake — a dan- 
gerous mischief-maker ; his wit or humor might 
force a grim smile, or hollow laugh, from the stand- 
ers-by, but they savored more of pain than playful- 
ness, and made you dissatisfied with yourself and 
him. When I left his gloomy hall, and the echoes 
o*f the heavy iron- plated door died aw^ay, I could 
hardly refrain from shouting v/ith joy as I hurried 
along the broad-flagged terrace w^hich overhangs 
the pleasant river, cheered on my course by the 
cloudless sky, soft air, and fading light, which close 
an Italian day. — E, J. Trelawny (" Records of 
Shelley, Byron, etc."). 

As to friendship, it is a propensity in which my 
genius is very limited. I do not know the male hu- 
man being, except Lord Clare, the friend of my in- 
fancy, for whom I feel anything that deserves the 
name. ... I will do my duty by my intimates, 
upon the principle of doing as you would be done 
by. I have done so, I trust, in most instances. I 
may be pleased with their conversation — rejoice in 
their success — be glad to do them service, or to re- 
ceive their counsel and assistance in return. But as 
for friends and friendship, I have (as I already said) 
named the only remaining male for whom I feel 
anything of the kind, excepting, perhaps, Thomas 



''The 
Snaked 



His own 

vie IV of 

frie7tdship. 



64 



BYRON. 



His oivn 

vieiv of 

friendskip. 



Gross vices. 
Knd of the 
latest scan- 
dal. 



Mental 
activity. 



Moore. I have had, and may still have, a thousand 
friends, as they are called, in life., who are like one's 
partners in the v/altz of this world — not much re- 
membered when the ball is over, though very pleas- 
ant for the time. — Lord Byron (quoted in Moore's 
'' Life of Byron "). 

In concluding this very unpleasant summary of 
Byron's bad qualities, the editor would remark that 
he has not deemed it necessary to soil these pages 
with illustrations of Byron's notorious immorality 
in his relations to women. The evidence in regard 
to this subject is authentic and voluminous, and is 
easily accessible to all who take an interest in such 
researches. Nor has it seemed needful to enter 
into any consideration of the last assault upon 
Byron's memory, an assault of which Mr. Nichol 
has well said ; '' Strangely enough, it is from the 
country of Washington, whom the poet was wont 
to reverence as the purest patriot of the modern 
world, that in 1869 there emanated the hideous 
story which scandalized both continents, and ulti- 
mately recoiled on the retailer of the scandal. The 
grounds of the reckless charge have been weighed 
by those who have wished it to prove false, and by 
those who have wished it to prove true, and found 
wanting." The charge having been met and re- 
futed, the whole noxious affair may well be con- 
sioned to oblivion. 

Almost every second day, while the Satire was 
printing, Mr. Dallas, who had undertaken to super- 
intend it through the press, received fresh matter 



BYRON. 



65 



for the enrichment of its pages, from the author, 
whose mind, once excited on any subject, knew no 
end to the outpourings of its wealth. In one of his 
short notes to Mr. Dallas, he says, "Print soon, or 
I shall overflow with rhyme ;" and it was, in the 
same manner, in all his subsequent publications, — as 
long, at least, as he remained within reach of the 
printer, — that he continued thus to feed the press, to 
the very last moment, with new and " thick-coming 
fancies," which the reperusal of what he had al- 
ready written suggested to him. It would almost 
seem, indeed, from the extreme facility and rapidity 
with which he produced some of his brightest pas- 
sages during the progress of his works through the 
press, that there was in the very act of printing 
an excitement to his fancy, and that the rush of his 
thoughts towards this outlet gave increased life and 
freshness to their flow. — T. Moore (" Life of Byron "). 

His memory is one of the most retentive I ever 
encountered, for he does not forget even trifling 
occurrences, or persons to whom, I believe, he feels 
a perfect indifference. ... It surprises me to 
witness the tenacity with which his memory re- 
tains every trivial occurrence connected with his 
sojourn in England and his London life. . . . 
For example, speaking of a mutual acquaintance, 

Byron said, ^' was the first man I saw wear pale 

lemon-colored gloves, and devilish well they looked."^ 
— Countess of Blessington (" Idler in Italy "). 

^ Byron's memory retained better things than these. Those 
who knew him most intimately speak of his memory as something 
veiy remarkable. 

I.-S 



Mental 
activity^ 



Memory, 



66 



bykon: 



Politics. 



Scott believed that Byron's professions of liberal- 
ism were not the result of any deep conviction, but 
*'that the pleasure it afforded him as a vehicle of 
displaying his wit and satire against individuals in 
office was at the bottom of this habit of thinking." 
This view, however, does not seem tenable, for 
Byron confirmed his words by deeds. In 1820 he 
joined the secret society of the Carbonari and took 
an active part in the Italian insurrection ; and the 
last year of his life was devoted, at great personal 
sacrifices, to the cause of Greece. Mr, John Nich- 
ol, in his volume upon Byron, gives the following 
excellent summary of the poet's most significant 
words upon this subject : 

** Byron regarded the established dynasties of the 
continent with a sincere hatred. He talks of the 
more than infernal tyranny of the House of Austria. 
To his fancy, as to Shelley's, New England is the 
star of the future. Attracted by a strength or rather 
force of character akin to his own, he worshipped 
Napoleon, even when driven to confess that 'the 
hero had sunk into a king.' He lamented his over- 
throw ;^ but, above all, that he was beaten by 'three 
stupid, legitimate old dynasty boobies of regular 
sovereigns.' ' I write in ipecacuanha that the Bour- 
bons are restored.' ' What right have we to pre- 
scribe laws to France ? Here we are retrograding 
to the dull, stupid old system, balance of Europe — 



^ When he heard the news of Waterloo, he said, " I am d d 

sorry for it ! I didn't know but I might live to see Lord Castle- 
reagh's head on a pole. But I suppose I sha'n't now." This was 
heard by George Ticknor, who noted it in his journal. 



BYRON. 



67 



poising straws on lyings' noses, instead of wringing 
tliem off.' 'The king-times are fast finishing. There 
will be blood shed like water, and tears like mist ; 
but the peoples will conquer in the end. I shall not 
live to see it, but I foresee it.' * Give me a re- 
public. Look in the history of the earth — Rome, 
Greece, Venice, Holland, France, America, our too 
short Commonwealth — and compare it with what 
they did under masters.' " 

The author has had an opportunity of learning, 
from the very first authority, that the importance 
of Lord Byron's life to the Greek cause was even 
greater than he had ventured to suppose it. His 
w4iole influence was turned to the best and wisest 
purposes ; and most singular it was to behold an 
individual, certainly not remarkable for prudence 
in his own private affairs, direct with the utmost 
sagacity the course to be pursued by a great 
nation, involved in a situation of extraordinary dif- 
ficulty. It seems as if his keen and hasty temper 
was tamed by the importance of the task which he 
had undertaken. . . . His advice and control 
were constantly exerted to reconcile the indepen- 
dent and jarring chiefs with each other, to in- 
duce them to lay aside jealousies, feuds, and the 
miserable policy of seeking each some individual 
advantage ; and to determine them to employ their 
united means against the common enemy. It was 
his constant care to postpone the consideration of 
disputes upon speculative political maxims, and di- 
rect every effort to the recovery of national inde- 
pendence, without which no form of government 



Politics, 



Rxecutive 

ability tit 

Greece. 



68 



BYRON. 



Courage. 



Fit7)orable 
estivtates 

of his 
character. 



could be realized. 
Lord Byron")/ 



-Sir Walter Scott (*' Death of 



Moore gives the testimony of many witnesses 
to Byron's courage. Colonel Stanhope, who was 
with him in Greece, tells of a convulsive fit which 
nearly ended the poet's life, and how he was bled 
by the surgeons till he fainted. He continues, 
*' Soon after his dreadful paroxysm, when he was 
lying on his sick-bed, with his whole nervous system 
completely shaken, the mutinous Suliotes, covered 
with dirt and splendid attires, broke into his apart- 
ment, brandishing their costly arms and loudly de- 
manding their rights. Lord Byron, electrified by 
this unexpected act, seemed to recover from his 
sickness ; and the more the Suliotes raged the more 
his calm courage triumphed. The scene was truly 
sublime." 

What I liked about him, besides his boundless 
genius, was his generosity of spirit "^ as well as of 
purse, and his utter contempt of all the affectations 
of literature. He liked Moore and me because, with 



' Scott (Sir Walter). Miscellaneous Prose Works. 7vols., 8vo. 
Baudry, Paris, 1837. 

' One of the most pleasant instances of practical kindliness on 
Byron's part, appears in a letter which he wrote to Moore, in 18 15. 
He says : 

** By the way, if poor Coleridge — who is a man of wonderful 
talent, and in distress, and about to pubhsh two volumes of Poesy 
and Biography, and who has been worse used by the critics than 
ever we were — will you if he comes out, promise me to review him 
favorably in the Edinburgh Review?''^. 



BYROA'. 



69 



all our other differences, we were both good-natured 
fellows, not caring to maintain our dignity, enjoy- 
ing the jnot pottr rire. — Sir Walter Scott (quoted in 
Moore's " Life of Byron "). 

Upon the occasion of Byron's death, Sir Walter 
Scott wrote an obituary notice, which was published 
in the Edinburgh Weekly Journal, and was afterwards 
reprinted in Scott's miscellaneous works. In the 
course of this article Scott said : " No man had 
ever a kinder heart for sympathy, or a more open 
hand for the relief of distress ; and no mind was 
ever more formed for the enthusiastic admiration of 
noble actions, providing he was convinced that the 
actors had proceeded on disinterested principles. 
Lord Byron was totally free from the curse and deg- 
radation of literature — its jealousies, we mean, and 
its envy." 

What do I know of Lord Byron ? . . . Per- 
sonally I know nothing but good of him. . . . 
When I was in the habit of familiarly seeing him,^ 
he was kindness itself. At a time when Coleridge 
was in great embarrassment, Rogers, when calling 
on Byron, chanced to mention it. He immediately 
went to his writing-desk, and brought back a check 
for a hundred pounds, and insisted on its being for- 
warded to Coleridge. ** I did not like takmg it," 
said Rogers, who told me the story, "for I knew 
that he was in want of it himself." His servants he 
treated with a gentle consideration for their feelings 



* Before his departure from England. 



Favorable 
cstiutntes 

of his 
character. 



Scotfs 
notice of 
his death. 



The eulogies 
of personal 
friends. 



70 



BYRON. 



The eulogies 

of personal 

friends. 



which I have seldom witnessed in any other, and 
they were devoted to him. At Newstead there v/as 
an old man who had been butler to his mother, and 
I have seen Byron, as the old man waited behind 
his chair at dinner, pour out a glass of wine and 
pass it to him when he thought we were too much 
engaged in conversation to observe what he was 
doing. The transaction was a thing of custom ; 
and both parties seemed to flatter themselves that 
it was clandestinely affected. A hideous old wom- 
an, who had been brought in to nurse him when 
he was unwell at one of his lodgings, and whom 
few would have cared to have retained about 
them longer than her services were required, was 
carried with him, in improved attire, to his cham- 
bers in the Albany, and was seen, after his marriage, 
gorgeous in black silk, at his house in Piccadilly. 
She had done him a service and he could not forget 
it. Of his attachment to his friends, no one can 
read Moore's life, and have a doubt. ... I have 
never yet heard anybody complain that Byron had 
once appeared to entertain a regard for him, and 
had afterward capriciously cast him off. — William 
Harness (L'Estrange's " Life of Harness "). 

The memoir of Hodgson ^ bears emphatic witness 
to the warmth and steadfastness of Hodgson's re- 
gard for Byron. It also records many kindly and 
generous acts on Byron's part, and contains a cor- 
respondence between Lady Augusta Leigh and 



' Hodgson (Rev. James T.). Memoir of the Rev. Francis Hodg- 
son. 2 vols., crown 8vo. London, 1878. 



BYRON. 



71 



Hodgson, which is of considerable value as a con- 
tribution to our knowledge of Byron's married life. 
John Cam Hobhouse (Lord Broughton) was another 
of Byron's personal friends who remained constant 
to him throughout his life, and was one of his 
warmest defenders. 

Of any partiality, . . . beyond what our 
mutual friendship accounts for and justifies, I am 
by no means conscious ; nor would it be in the 
power, indeed, of even- the most partial friend to 
allege anything more convincingly favorable of his 
character than is contained in the few simple facts 
with which I shall here conclude, that, through 
life, with all his faults, he never lost a friend ;— that 
those about him in his youth, whether as compan- 
ions, teachers, or servants, remained attached to him 
to the last ; — that the woman, to v/hom he gave the 
love of his maturer years, idolizes his name ; and 
that, with a single unhappy exception, scarce an 
instance is to be found of any one, once brought, 
however briefly, into relations of amity with him, 
that did not feel toward him a kind regard in life, 
and retain a fondness for his memory. — T. Moore 
('VLife of Byron "). 



The eulogiei 

of persufial 

friends. 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY, 



I792-1822. 



INTRODUCTORY NOTE. 



THERE are two works of pre-eminent value to the 
student of Shelley's life and character. These 
are Thomas Jefferson Hogg's " Life of Shelley" and 
the " Recollections " of Edward John Trelawny. 
Two volumes of Hogg's book were published in 
1858, but the work was never finished. Shelley's 
family became alarmed by the manner in which 
Hogg was working, and withdrew the letters and 
records which they had intrusted to him. We may 
well be thankful that he was able to publish these 
two volumes ; for, fragmentary as it is, Hogg's book 
is invaluable. Rough and caustic, it yet gives us 
many facts of Shelley's early years, and many illus- 
trations of his complex character, which we find 
nowhere else. Trelawny'swork shows us the Shelley 
of a later period. The latest edition is that of 1878, 
entitled " Records of Shelley, Byron, and the 
Author." It is interesting to know that Trelawny 
approved of Hogg's work. W. M. Rossetti wrote 
in his diary, March 11, 1870, *' Trelawny is now 
reading with extreme delight Hogg's ' Life of 
Shelley ' (hitherto unread by him) : he considers 
Hogg's view of the poet to be thoroughly consistent 



7^ PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 

with his own later experience " ("Talks with Tre- 
lawny," AthencEum^ July 15, 1882). The following 
works are also worthy of attention : '' Shelley 
Memorials," edited by Lady Shelley, the poet's 
daughter-in-law ; Medwin's " Life of Shelley ;" the 
careful and detailed memoir by W. M. Rossetti, 
prefixed to his edition of Shelley's poems ; D. F. 
McCarthy's " Shelley's Early Life ; " Richard Gar- 
nett's "Relics of Shelley;" and the various edi- 
tions of Shelley's works. In Frasers Magazine, 1858 
and i860, there are articles upon Shelley by T. L. 
Peacock ; there are articles by R. Garnett in Mac- 
7nillans Magazine, June, i860, and in the Fort- 
nightly Review, June, 1878 ; see also an article by 
Thornton Hunt, in the Atlantic Monthly, February, 
1863. Incidental mention of Shelley, containing 
much that is valuable, may be found in Southey's 
"Correspondence with Caroline Bowles;" Leigh 
Hunt's "Autobiography," and the same author's 
" Lord Byron and Some of his Contemporaries ;" 
Charles and Mary Cowden Clarke's " Recollections 
of Writers;" Moore's "Life of Byron;" R. H. 
Gronow's "Celebrities of London and Paris;" 
Henry Crabb Robinson's "Diary ; " and a series of 
anonymous articles (which have been attributed to 
Barry Cornwall), entitled " A Graybeard's Gossip," 
in the New Monthly Magazine, 1847. 

In 1859 Lady Shelley declared that the Shelley 
family were in possession of facts and documents 
which would vindicate Shelley's character in regard 
to his separation from his first wife, and his elope- 
ment with Mary Godwin. Lady Shelley promised 
that these facts should be made public at some fu- 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 77 

ture time, and in the latest edition of her *' Shelley 
Memorials" (1874) she repeated the promise ; but 
it still remains unfulfilled/ The time, therefore, is 
not yet ripe for a reconsideration of this painful epi- 
sode. In the chronological table of the leading 
events of Shelley's life (p. 79) will be found those 
facts, and only those facts, upon which all parties 
agree. To attempt more than this would be im- 
practicable in the present work. Those who wish 
to study the subject will find matter for much be- 
wilderment in the volumes already cited. 

Those who best knew Shelley speak of him w^ith 
a warmth which seems extravagant. It is a signifi- 
cant fact that men of the most opposite characters, 
men who differed widely in their theories of life 
and in their modes of conduct, unite in expressions 
of enthusiastic devotion to their common friend. 
Byron, Leigh Hunt, Trelawny, Hogg — men hav- 
ing but little in common — say that this was the best 
and most lovable man they ever knew. Such testi- 
mony cannot be lightly put aside, and may fairly 
be opposed to the vehemence of Shelley's detractors. 

^ One of the latest contributions to the Shelleyan literature is an 
article entitled " Shelley and Mary," in the Edinburgh Review^ 
October, 1882. This article is based upon "A collection of let- 
ters and documents of a biographical character in the possession of 
Sir Percy and Lady Shelley, for private circulation only. 3 vols., 
8vo. 1882." It is peculiarly valuable to the student of Shelley's 
life and character, and throws new light upon many incidents. It 
adds but little, however, to the former sum of knowledge concern- 
ing Shelley's separation from his wife, Harriet, and cannot be ac- 
cepted as a fulfilment of Lady Shelley's promise ; since it gives us 
no new facts, of material importance, in regard to the subject 
which has occasioned so much dispute. 



78 PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY, 

In his lifetime, whatever his sins, Shelley was very 
badly treated. His course of life was generally, in 
some way or other, in open conflict with the usages 
and dicta of society ; and society is prompt to re- 
sent opposition of this kind, in whatever form it 
manifests itself. Accordingly, in behalf of British 
respectability, the pack of critics snarled and 
snapped at Shelley, with varying degrees of igno- 
rance and malevolence. But, passing by these 
ephemeral things, which have ceased to have any 
importance save as matters of literary curiosity, 
there are other judgments more worthy of atten- 
tion. There is a wide difference of opinion about 
Shelley, between men whose w^ords are entitled to 
respect, and it is interesting to observe the extreme 
points of this difference, as shown by two writers, 
Thomas Carlyle and William Michael Rossetti. 
Rossetti says : '' He asks for no suppressions, he 
needs none, and from me he gets none. After 
everything has been stated, we find that the man 
Shelley was worthy to be the poet Shelley, and 
praise cannot reach higher than that ; we find him 
to call forth the most eager and fervent homage, 
and to be one of the ultimate glories of our race 
and planet." ^ Carlyle says : '* To me poor Shelley 
always was, and is, a kind of ghastly object, color- 
less, pallid, without health, or warmth, or vigor ; 
the sound of him shrieky, frosty, as if a ghost were 
trying to sing to us ; the temperament of him spas- 

* Rossetti (William Michael). Poetical Works of Percy Bysshe 
Shelley. With Notes and a Memoir. 3 vols., i2mo. London, 
1878. 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 79 

modic, hysterical, instead of strong or robust ; with 
fine affections and aspirations, gone all such a road : 
a man infinitely too weak for that solitary scaling 
of the Alps, which he undertook in spite of all the 
world." ' 

LEADING EVENTS OF SHELLEY'S LIFE. 

1792. Bom August 4th, at Field Place, near Hor- 

sham, Sussex. 

1805. — (Aged 13.) A scholar at Eton. 

1810. — (Aged 17-18.) Publishes his first work, "Zastrozzi," a 
novel, in June. Goes to Oxford Univer- 
sity in October. 

1811. — (Aged 18-19.) Expelled from Oxford in March. Runs 
away to Edinburgh with Miss Harriet 
Westbrook, and marries her, in Septem- 
ber. 

1812. — (Aged 19-20.) A political agitator in Ireland. 

1813.— (Aged 21.) Publishes "Queen Mab," 2 

1814. — (Aged 21-22.) Remarries his wife, Harriet, March 24th. 
Elopes vnth Mary W. Godwin, July 28th, 
and takes her and her sister, Jane Clair- 
mont, to Switzerland. They return to 
England in September. 

1815. — (Aged 23.) His grandfather dies, and he becomes heir to 
the family estates. In England, living 
with Mary W. Godwin. 

1816. — (Aged 23-24.) Publishes "Alastor." Revisits Switzerland 
with Mary W. Godwin and Jane Clair- 
mont in May, and meets Byron for the 
first time, at Geneva. Returns to Eng- 

' Carlyle (Thomas). Reminiscences. Edited by J. A. Froude. 
8vo. London and New York, 1881. 

' This was a private issue of two hundred and fifty copies, which 
were distributed gratuitously. This issue was pirated, and the 
poem was republished, against Shelley's protest, in 1821. 



80 PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 

land in September. His wife, Harriet, 
commits suicide in November. (?) He 
maiTies Mary W. Godwin in December. 

1817. — (Aged 25.) Lord Chancellor Eldon deprives him of his son 
and daughter, the children of his first 
marriage. He lives at Great Marlow 
with his second wife. 

1818.— (Aged 26.) Publishes " The Revolt of Islam," which, 
under the title " Laon and Cythna," had 
been published in the preceding year. 
Goes to Italy with his wife. 

1819. — (Aged 27). Publishes "The Cenci," at Leghorn. 

1820. — (Aged 28.) Publishes "Prometheus Unbound." Living at 
Pisa. 

1821. — (Aged 29.) Publishes "Adonais," and Epipsychidion. 

1822. — (Aged 29 years, 11 months.) Drowned, in the Bay of 
Spezia, July 8th. 







o^ 



^^^ 




PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 



THE most authentic records of Shelley's child- 
hood are contained in some letters written 
by his sister. The following extracts have been 
made from these letters, as printed in Hogg's " Life 
of Shelley." ' 

"At this distant period I can scarcely remember 
my Jirst impressions of Bysshe, but he would fre- 
quently come to the nursery and was full of a pe- 
culiar kind of pranks. One piece of mischief, for 
which he was rebuked, was running a stick through 
the ceiling of a low passage to find some new 
chamber, which could be made effective for some 
flights of his vivid imagination. The tales, to which 
we have sat and listened, evening after evening, 
seated on his knee, w^hen we came to the dining- 
room for dessert, were anticipated with that pleasing 
dread, which so excites the minds of children, and 
fastens so strongly and indelibly on the memory. 
There was a spacious garret under the roof of Field 
Place, and a room, which had been closed for years, 
excepting an entrance made by the removal of a 
board in the garret floor. This unknown land was 



' Hogg (Thomas Jefferson). Life of Shelley. Vols. i-2, 8vo. 
London, 1858. {Ahver completed.^ 
L— 6 



His child- 
hood, de- 
scribed by 
his sister. 



82 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 



His child- 
hood, de- 
scribed by 
his sister. 



made the abode of an alchemist, old and gray, with a 
long beard. . . . We were to go and see him 
some day ; but we Avere content to wait, and a cave 
was to be dug in the orchard for the better accom- 
modation of this Cornelius Agrippa. Another fa- 
vorite theme was the ' Great Tortoise,' that lived 
in Warnham Pond ; and any unwonted noise was 
accounted for by the presence of this great beast, 
which was made into the fanciful proportions most 
adapted to excite awe and w^onder. 

'' Bysshe was certainly fond of eccentric amuse- 
ments, but they delighted us, as children, quite as 
much as if our minds had been naturally attuned to 
the same tastes ; for we dressed ourselves in strange 
costumes to personate spirits, or fiends, and Bysshe 
would take a fire-stove and fill it wnth some inflamma- 
ble liquid, and carry it flaming into the kitchen and 
to the back-door. . . . When my brother com- 
menced his studies in chemistry, and practised elec- 
tricity upon us, I confess my pleasure in it was en- 
tirely negatived by terror at its eifects. 

**He was, at a later period, in the habit of walk- 
ing out at night. . . . The old servant of the 
family would follow him, and say, that ' Master 
Bysshe only took a walk, and came back again.' 
He was full of cheerful fun, and had all the comic 
vein so agreeable in a household. 

" I remember well how he used to sing to us ; he 
could not bear any turns or twists in music, but 
liked a tune played quite simply. . . . His good 
temper was a pleasant memory always, and I do not 
recollect an instance of the reverse towards any of 
us." 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 



83 



Mrs. Shelley, the poet's second wife, is quoted as 
follows in Hogg's ''Life of Shelley:" "Amongst 
his other self-sought studies, he was passionately 
attached to the study of what used to be called the 
occult sciences, conjointly with that of the new won- 
ders, which chemistry and natural philosophy have 
displayed to us. His pocket-money was spent in the 
purchase of books relative to these darling pur- 
suits, — of chemical apparatus and materials. . . . 
Sometimes he watched the livelong night for ghosts. 
At his father's house, where his influence was, of 
course, great among the dependants, he even 
planned how he might get admission to the vault, 
or charnel-house, at Warnham Church, and might 
sit there all night, harrowed by fear, yet trembling 
with expectation, to see one of the spiritualized 
owners of the bones piled around him." 

In the year 1809 ^ an incident occurred at Eton 
which caused no small sensation and merriment 
throughout the school. It was announced one 
morning that Shelley, the future poet, had actually 
accepted wager of battle from Sir Thomas Styles. 
Whether he had received an insult, and that vast dis- 
proportion in size gave him confidence, or that over- 
full of the warlike descriptions of Homer's heroes, he 
was forced to imitate their exploits against some one 
or other, remains a secret. Meet, however, they did, 
after twelve, in the playing-field. The usual pre- 
liminaries were arranged — a ring was formed, sec- 
onds and bottle-holders were all in readiness, and 

^ When Shelley was about seventeen years old. 



Mary Skel- 
leysaccowit 
of his child- 
hood. 



AJight at 
Kton. 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 



AJt&-ht at 
Rton. 



the combatants stood face to face. The tall lank 
figure of the poet towered above the diminutive, 
thickset little baronet by nearly a head or so. In 
the first round no mischief was done ; Sir Thomas 
seemed to be feeling his way, being naturally desi- 
rous of ascertaining what his gigantic adversary was 
made of ; and Shelley, though brandishing his long 
arms, had evidently no idea of their use in a pugi- 
listic point of view. After a certain amount of spar- 
ring without effect, the combatants were invited by 
their seconds to take breath. The baronet did not 
hesitate to accept the offer to sit upon the knee of 
his second ; but Shelley disdainfully declined to 
rest, and calculating upon finishing the fight by a 
single blow, stalked round the ring, looking defiance 
at his little adversary. 

Time was called, and the battle was renewed in 
earnest. The baronet, somewhat cautious, planted 
his first blow upon the chest of Shelley, who did 
not appear to relish it. However, though not a 
proficient in the art of self-defence, he nevertheless 
went in, and knocked the little baronet off his legs, 
who lay sprawling upon the grass, more dead than 
alive. Shelley's confidence increased ; he stalked 
round the ring as before, and spouted one of the 
defiant addresses usual with Homer's heroes when 
about to commence a single combat : the young 
poet, being a first-rate classical scholar, actually de- 
livered the speech in the original Greek, to the no 
small amusement of the boys. In the third and last 
round Styles went to work like a first-rate artist, and, 
after several slighter blows, delivered what is called 
in the prize ring ''a heavy slogger " on Shelley's 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 



85 



bread-basket ; this seemed positively to electrify the 
bard, for, I blush to say, he broke through the ring, 
and took to his heels with a speed that defied pur- 
suit. His seconds, backers, and all who had wit- 
nessed the fight, joined in full cry after him, but he 
outran them all, and got safe to the house of his 
tutor, Mr. Bethel. . . . Shelley never more dur- 
ing his stay . . . ventured to enter the pugi- 
listic arena. — R. H. Gronow (" Celebrities of Lon- 
don and Paris'').^ 

He passed among his schoolfellows as a strange 
and unsocial being, for when a holiday relieved us 
from our tasks, and the other boys were engaged in 
such sports as the narrow circuit of our prison- 
court allowed, Shelley, v^^ho entered into none of 
them, would pace backwards and forwards 
along the southern wall. — Thomas Medwin ('^ Life 
of Shelley").' 

In his ''Life of Shelley," Hogg inserts a letter 
from Walter S. Halliday, from which the following 
extract has been made : " Many a long and happy 
walk have I had w^ith him in the beautiful neigh- 
borhood of dear old Eton. We used to wander for 
hours about Clewer, Frogmore, the Park at Wind- 
sor, the Terrace ; and I was a delighted and willing 
listener to his marvellous stories of fairy-land, and 
apparitions, and spirits, and haunted ground ; and 

' Gronow (Rees Howell). Celebrities of London and Paris. 
i6mo. London, 1865. 

- Medwin (Thomas). The Life of Percy Bysshe Shelley. 2 vols., 
l2mo. London, 1847. 



A fight at 
Kton. 



School- days 
at Eton. 



RccoUec- 

tions of a. 

school-fel- 

loiv. 



86 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 



Recollec- 
tions of a 
schooi-fel- 
loiv. 



Personal 
aj>pearance. 



his speculations were then (for his mind was far 
more developed than mine) of the world beyond 
the grave. ... I v/as myself too young to 
form any estimate of character, but I loved Shelley 
for his kindliness and affectionate ways : he was not 
made to endure the rough and boisterous pastime 
at Eton, and his shy and gentle nature was glad to 
escape far away to muse over strange fancies, for 
his mind was reflective and teeming with deep 
thought. His lessons were child's play to him, and 
his power of Latin versification marvellous. I 
think I remember some long work he had even 



then commenced, but I never saw it. 



He 



had great moral courage, and feared nothing, but 
what was base, and false, and low. He never joined 
in the usual sports of the boys, and, what is remark- 
able, never went out in a boat on the river." ' 

Shelley was at this time tall for his age,'* slightly 
and delicately built, and rather narrow-chested, 
with a complexion fair and ruddy, a face rather 
long than oval. His features, not regularly hand- 
some, were set off by a profusion of silky brown 
hair, that curled naturally. The expression of 
countenance was one of exceeding sweetness and 
innocence. His blue eyes were very large and 
prominent. . . . They were at times, when he 
was abstracted, as he often was in contemplation, 
dull, and, as it were, insensible to external objects ; 
at others they flashed with the fire of intelligence. 



» See p. g8. 
2 Ten years. 



Medwin was one of his school-mates at this time. 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 



87 



. . . He was naturally calm, but when he heard 
of or read of some flagrant act of injustice, oppres- 
sion, or cruelty, then indeed the sharpest marks of 
horror and indignation were visible in his counte- 
nance. — Thomas Medwin ('' Life of Shelley"). 

His figure was slight and fragile, and yet his 
bones and joints were large and strong. He w^as 
tall, but he stooped so much, that he seemed of low 
stature. His clothes were expensive, and made ac- 
cording to the most approved mode of the day ; but 
they were tumbled, rumpled, and unbrushed. His 
gestures were abrupt, and sometimes violent, occa- 
sionally even awkward, yet more frequently gentle 
and graceful. His complexion w^as delicate, and al- 
most feminine, of the purest red and white ; yet he 
was tanned and freckled by exposure to the sun, 
having passed the autumn, as he said, in shooting. 
His features, his whole face, and particularly his 
head, were, in fact, unusually small ; yet the last 
appeared oi remarkable bulk, for his hair was long 
and bushy, and in fits of absence, and in the agonies 
(if I may use the w^ord) of anxious thought, he often 
rubbed it fiercely with his hands, or passed his fin- 
gers quickly through his locks unconsciously, so 
that it was singularly wild and rough. In times 
when it was customary to imitate stage-coachmen 
as closely as possible in costume, and when the hair 
w^as invariably cropped, like that of our soldiers, 
this eccentricity was very striking. 

His features were not symmetrical (the mouth, 
perhaps, excepted), yet was the effect of the whole 
extremely powerful. They breathed an animation, 



Personal 
appearance. 



88 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 



Personal 
af>peara7ice. 



Voice. 



a fire, an enthusiasm, a vivid and preternatural in- 
telligence, that I never met with in any other coun- 
tenance. Nor was the moral expression less beau- 
tiful than the intellectual ; for there was a softness, 
a delicacy, a gentleness, and especially (though this 
will surprise many) that air of profound religious 
veneration, that characterizes the best works, and 
chiefly the frescoes (and into these they infused 
their whole souls), of the great masters of Florence 
and of Rome. I recognized the very peculiar expres- 
sion in these wonderful productions long afterward, 
and with a satisfaction mingled with much sorrow, 
for it was after the decease of him in whose counte- 
nance I had first observed it. — T. J. Hogg (''Life of 
Shelley "). 

I beheld ' a fair, freckled, blue-eyed, light-haired, 
delicate-looking person, whose countenance was 
serious and thoughtful ; whose stature would have 
been rather tall had he carried himself upright ; 
whose earnest voice, though never loud, was some- 
what unmusical. Manifest as it was that his pre- 
occupied mind had no thought to spare for the mo- 
dish adjustment of his fashionably made clothes, it 
was impossible to doubt, even for a moment, that you 
were gazing upon a gentleman.^ ..." Never 
did a more finished gentleman than Shelley step 
across a drawing-room," was the remark of Lord 



1 In 1816. 

2 Thomas Medwin says, in his " Life of Shelley : " " Shelley was 
a man of the nicest habits, — the most scrupulous nicety in his per- 
son ; invariably, whatever might be his occupation, making his toi- 
let for dinner." 



PERCY BY S SHE SHELLEY. 



89 



Byron. — Anonymous (" A Graybeard's Gossip," 
Neiv Monthly Magazine, 1847). 

Shelley, when he died, was in his thirtieth year. 
His figure was tall and slight, and his constitution 
consumptive. He was subject to violent spasmodic 
pains, which would sometimes force him to lie on 
the ground till they were over ; but he had always 
a kind word to give to those about him, when his 
pangs allowed him to speak. . . . Though well- 
turned, his shoulders were bent a little, owing to 
premature thought and trouble. The same causes 
had touched his hair with gray ; and though his 
habits of temperance and exercise gave him a re- 
markable degree of strength, it is not supposed that 
he could have lived many years. . . . His eyes 
were large and animated, with a dash of wildness 
in them ; his face small, but well-shaped, especially 
the mouth and chin, the turn of which was very 
sensitive and graceful. His complexion was natu- 
rally fair and delicate, with a color in the cheeks. 
He had brown hair, which, though tinged with 
gray, surmounted his face well, being in consider- 
able quantity, and tending to a curl. His side- 
face upon the whole was deficient in strength, and 
his features would not have told well in a bust ; 
but when fronting and looking at you attentively, 
his aspect had a certain seraphical character that 
would have suited John the Baptist, or the angel 
whom Milton describes as holding a reed "tiptwith 
fire." — Leigh Hunt ("Autobiography").^ 

^ Hunt (James Henry Leigh). Autobiography and Reminis- 
cences. 3 vols., i6mo. London, 1850. 



Personal 
aJ>J>earance 



90 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 



Personal 
'.;ppearance. 



Shelley was talland slight of figure, with a sin- 
gular union of general delicacy of organization and 
muscular strength. His hair w^as brown, prema- 
turely touched w^ith gray ; his complexion fair and 
glowing ; his eyes gray and extremely vivid ; his 
face small and delicately featured, especially about 
the lower part ; and he had an expression of coun- 
tenance, when he was talking in his usual earnest 
fashion, giving you the idea of something " seraph- 
ical."— Leigh Hunt (from a letter quoted by S. C. 
Hall in his '' Book of Memories "). 

His face was round, flat, pale, with small feat- 
ures ; mouth beautifully shaped ; hair bright brown 
and wavy ; and such a pair of eyes as are rarely in 
the human or any other head, — intensely blue, with 
a gentle and lambent expression, yet w^onderfully 
alert and engrossing ; nothing appeared to escape 
his knowledge. . . . Shelley's figure was a 
little above the middle height, slender, and of 
delicate construction, which appeared the rather 
from a lounging or waving manner in his gait, as 
though his frame was compounded barely of muscle 
and tendon ; and that the power of walking was an 
achievement with him, and not a natural habit. — 
Charles Cowden Clarke (''Recollections").* 

He still (1818) had that ultra-youthful figure that 
partook the traits of the hobbledehoy, arrived at 
man's stature, but not yet possessing the full manly 



4 



1 Clarke (Charles Cowden and Mary Cowden). Recollections of 
Writers. i2mo. London and New York, 1C78. 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 



91 



proportions. His extremities were large, his limbs 
long, his face small, and his thorax very partially 
developed, especially in girth. In habitual eager- 
ness of mood, thrusting forward his face, made him 
stoop, with sunken chest and rounded shoulders. 
. . But in his countenance there was life in- 
stead of weariness ; melancholy more often yielded 
to alternations of bright thoughts ; and paleness 
had given way to a certain freshness of color, with 
something like roses in the cheeks. — Thornton 
Hunt {Atla?itic Monthly^ February, 1863). 

His features were small — the upper part of his 
face not strictly regular — the eyes unusually promi- 
nent, too much so for beauty. His mouth was 
moulded after the finest modelling of Greek art, 
and wore an habitual expression of benevolence, 
and when he smiled, his smile irradiated his w^hole 
countenance. His hands were thin, and expressed 
feeling to the finger's ends ; . . , his hair, pro- 
fuse, silken, and naturally curling, was at a very 
early period interspersed with gray. . . . He 
did not look so tall as he was, being nearly five feet 
eleven, for his shoulders were a little bent by study, 
. . . owing to his being near-sighted, and lean- 
ing over his books, and which increased the nar- 
rowness of his chest. — Thomas Medwin (" Life of 
Shelley "). 

In 1880 an interview with E. J. Treiawny was 
published in the Whitehall Review (London). He is 
reported to have spoken of Shelley's appearance as 
follows : 



Personal 
appearance. 



92 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 



Personal 
aJ>J>earajice. 



Dress. 



" ' What, ' he growled, ' is all that rubbish that 
Symonds writes about Shelley being too beautiful to 
paint ? Too beautiful to paint, indeed ! When he 
was quite young he might have had the beauty that 
we admire in children or young girls, but he had 
no manly beauty. He was narrow-chested and he 
stooped like a scholar. You could see that from a 
child, almost a baby, he had been bending over 
books. He had the smallest head of any man I 
ever knew ; Byron's came next. His eyes were 
slightly prominent, and there was hardly any of the 
white visible. To see him in a crowd was like see- 
ing a stag in the midst of a herd of deer. The deer 
has a timid way of looking on the ground, but the 
stag walks with lifted head and shining eyes. His 
were like stars.' " ' 

I never remiCmber to have seen Bysshe in a great- 
coat or cloak, even in the coldest weather. He 
wore his waistcoat much or entirely open. . . 
Unless he was compelled to cover it by main force, 
he had his throat bare ; the neckcloth being cast 
aside, lost, over the hills and far away, and the 
collar of his shirt unbuttoned. In the street or 
road he reluctantly wore a hat, but in fields and gar- 
dens his little round head had no other covering 
than his long, wild, ragged locks. — T. J. Hogg 
("Life of Shelley"). 

The real man was reconcilable with all these de- 



^ Another description of Shelley's appearance, by Trelawny, will 
be found upon p. 133. 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 



93 



scriptions.' His traits suggested everything that 
has been said of him ; but his aspect, conformation, 
and personal qualities contained more than- any one 
has ascribed to him, and more indeed than all put 
together. A few plain matters-of-fact will make 
this intelligible. Shelley was a tall man, — nearly, if 
not quite, five feet ten in height. He was pecul- 
iarly slender, and . . . his chest had palpably 
enlarged after the usual growing period. He 
retained the same kind of straitness in the per- 
pendicular outline on each side of him ; his shoul- 
ders were the reverse of broad, but yet they were 
not sloping, and a certain squareness in them was 
naturally incompatible with anything feminine in 
his appearance. To his last days he still suffered 
his chest to collapse ; but it was less a stoop than a 
peculiar mode of holding the head and shoulders, — 
the face thrown a little forward, and the shoulders 
slightly elevated ; though the whole attitude below 
the shoulders, when standing, was unusually up- 
right, and had the appearance of litheness and ac- 
tivity. . . . He had an oval face and delicate 
features, not unlike those given to him in the well- 
known miniature. His forehead was high. His 
fine, dark brown hair, when not cut close, disposed 
itself in playful and very beautiful curls over his 
brows and round the back of his neck. He had 
brown eyes, Hvith a color in his cheek ''like a girl's;" 



' The writer is commenting upon the various accounts of Shel- 
ley's personal appearance. 

^ Leigh Hunt says that Shelley's eyes were gray ; all the other 
authorities say that they were blue. 



Analysis of 
the -various 
accounts of 
his personal 
appearance. 



94 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 



Analysis of 
the 7>arious 
accounts of 
h is personal 
appearance. 



Voice. 



but as he grew older, his complexion bronzed. So 
far the reality agrees with the current descriptions ; 
nevertheless they omit material facts. The outline 
of the features and face possessed a firmness and 
hardness entirely inconsistent with a feminine char- 
acter. The outline was sharp and firm ; the mark- 
ings distinct, and indicating an energetic physique. 
The outline of the bone was distinctly perceptible 
at the temples, on the bridge of the nose, at the 
back portion of the cheeks, and in the jaw, and the 
artist could trace the principal muscles of the face. 
The beard, also, although the reverse of strong, w^as 
clearly marked, especially about the chin. Thus, 
although the general aspect was peculiarly slight, 
youthful, and delicate, yet, when you looked to "the 
points" of the animal, you saw Avell enough the in- 
dications of a masculine vigor, in many respects far 
above the average. And what I say of the physical 
aspect of course bears upon the countenance. That 
changed with every feeling. It usually looked ear- 
nest, — when joyful, was singularly bright and ani- 
mated, like that of a gay young girl, — when sad- 
dened, had an aspect of sorrow peculiarly touching, 
and sometimes it fell into a listless weariness still 
more mournful ; but for the most part there was a 
look of active movement, promptitude, vigor, and 
decision, which bespoke a manly, and even a com- 
manding character. — Thornton Hunt {Atlantic 
Monthly, February, 1863). 

There was one physical blemish that threatened 
to neutralize all his excellence. " This is a fine, 
clever fellow," I said to myself, " but I can never 



PERCY BYSSIIE SHELLEY. 



95 



The weakness ascribed to Shelley's voice was 
. . . taken from exceptional instances, and the 
account of it usually suggests the idea that he 
spoke in a falsetto which might almost be mistaken 
for the "shriek" of a harsh-toned woman. Noth- 
ing could be more unlike the reality. The voice 
was indeed quite peculiar, and I do not know 
where any parallel to it is likely to be found unless 
in Lancashire. . . . His speaking voice unques- 
tionably was that of a high natural counter-tenor. 
I should say that he usually spoke at a pitch some- 
where about the D natural above the base line ; but 
it was in no respect a falsetto. It was a natural 
chest-voice, not powerful, but telling, musical, and 
expressive. In reading aloud the strain was pecul- 
iarly clear, and had a sustained, song-like quality, 
which came out more strongly when, as he often 
did, he recited verse. When he called out in pain, 
— a very rare occurrence, — or sometimes in comic 
playfulness, you might hear the " shrillness " of 
which people talk ; but it was only because the 
organ was forced beyond the ordinary effort. His 
usual speech was clear, and yet with a breath in it, 
with an especially distinct articulation, a soft, vi- 



Voice, 



bear his society ; I shall never be able to endure his 
voice ; it would kill me. What a pity it is ! " I am 
very sensible of imperfections, and especially of 
painful sounds, — and the voice of the stranger was 
excruciating ; it was intolerably shrill, harsh, and 
discordant ; of the most cruel intension, — it was 
perpetual and without any remission, — it excori- 
ated the ears. — T. J. Hogg (" Life of Shelley "). 



96 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 



Voice. 



No ear for 
music. 



brating tone, emphatic, pleasant, and persuasive. — 
Thornton ^-\5^t {Atlantic Monthly .^ February, 1863). 

In the interview referred to on a preceding page 
Trelawny said, in reply to a question about Shel- 
ley's voice : 

'' Of course all the Shelley biographers must go 
on repeating Hogg's assertion about the harsh 
shrillness of the poet's tones. No doubt he was 
habitually hoarse in this climate. You always find 
that Italians lose their voice on coming to England, 
while that of the English gets sweeter in Italy. 
Shelley's voice was soft and pleasant — at any rate 
when I knew him." W. M. Rossetti, in his "Talks 
with Trelawny," published in The Athenceum^ July 
15, 1882, says, " Trelawny had not an unpleasant 
impression of Shelley's voice, save when he was ex- 
cited, and then it turned shrieky ; as on one occa- 
sion when Shelley came in much perturbed, from an 
interview with Byron, and screeched, ' By God, 
he's no better than a Christian ! ' " 

It is difficult to know what to think about this mat- 
ter. The authorities differ materially. Medwin says, 
in his " Life of Shelley," " His voice was soft and 
low, but broken in its tones, — when anything much 
interested him, harsh and immodulated ; and this 
peculiarity he never lost." R. H. Gronow, who was 
a school-fellow of Shelley's at Eton, speaks of his 
high, shrill voice. Leigh Hunt, who knew him well, 
says, ''His voice was high and weak." 

Shelley had no ear for music, — the words that he 
wrote for existing airs being, strangely enough, in- 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 



97 



appropriate in rhythm and even in cadence ; and al- 
though he had a manifest relish for music and often 
talked of it, I do not remember that I ever heard 
him sing even the briefest snatch/ — Thornton 
Hunt {Atlantic Monthly^ February, 1863). 

Notwithstanding the sense of weakness in the 
chest, which attacked him on any sudden effort, his 
power of exertion was considerable. Once, return- 
ing from a long excursion, and entering the house 
by the back way, up a precipitous, though not per- 
pendicular bank, the women of the party had to be 
helped ; and Shelley was the most active in render- 
ing that assistance. While others were content to 
accomplish the feat for one, he, I think, helped three 
up the bank, sliding in a half-sitting posture when 
he returned to fetch a new charge. I well remem- 
ber his shooting past me in a cloud of chalk dust, 
as I was slowly climbing up. ... I can also 
recollect that although he frequently preferred to 
steer rather than to put forth his strength, yet if it 
were necessary, he would take an oar, and could 
stick to his seat for any time against any force of 
current or of wind, not only without complaining, 
but without being compelled to give in until the set 
task was accomplished, though it should involve 
some miles of hard pulling. These facts indicate 
the amount of "grit" that lay under the outward 
appearance of weakness and excitable nerves. — 
Thornton Hunt (Atlantic Monthly^ February, 1863). 

He told me the greatest delight he experienced at 



' Yet his sister speaks of his singing. See p. 82. 
1—7 



No ear for 
music. 



Physical 
strength. 



98 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 



Boating. 



Grace and 

wivkivard- 

tiess. 



Eton was from boating, for which he had . . , 
early acquired a taste. I was present at a regatta 
in which he assisted, in 1809, and seemed to enjoy 
with great zest.^ A wherry was his beau ideal of 
happiness. ... A boat was to Shelley, what 
a plaything is to a child. . . . He was nine- 
teen when he used to float paper flotillas at Oxford. 
. . . He crossed the Channel to Calais in an open 
boat, a rash experiment. . . . He descended the 
Rhine on a sort of raft. — Thomas Medwin ("Life of 
Shelley"). 

Among the innumerable contradictions in the 
character and deportment of the youthful poet was 
a strange mixture of a singular grace, which mani- 
fested itself in his actions and gestures, with an oc- 
casional awkwardness almost as remarkable. . . . 
Shelley came tumbling upstairs, with a mighty 
sound, treading upon his nose, as I accused him of 
doing, rushed into the room, and throwing off his 
neckcloth, according to custom, stood staring around 
for some moments, as wondering why he had been 
in such a hurry. — T. J. Hogg (''Life of Shelley"). 

He would stumble in stepping across the floor of 
a drawing-room, he would trip himself up on a 
smooth-shaven grass-plot, and he would tumble in 
the most inconceivable manner in ascending the 
commodious, facile, and well-carpeted staircase of 
an elegant mansion ; ... on the contrary, he 



^ W. S. Halliday, who was at Eton with Shelley, says that he 
never went out on the river. But there is abundant evidence to 
show that in later years he was passionately fond of boating. 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 



99 



Grace and 

anvkwardM 

ness. 



would often glide without collision through a crowd- 
ed assembly, thread with unerring dexterity a most 
intricate path, or securely and rapidly tread the most 
arduous and uncertain ways. — T. J. Hogg ("Life of 
Shelley"). 

His letters inform us, that he had occasionally a vegeta- 
restricted himself m great measure, if not entirely, i stimulants. 

11,. T • T 1 Tobacco. 

to a vegetable diet. ... It was not until the 
spring of 1813 that he entered upon a full and ex- 
act course of vegetable diet. . . . His nutri- 
ment had ever been, and always was, simple, con- 
sisting . . . principally of bread eaten by itself 
or with some very slight or frugal condiment. 
Spirituous liquors he never tasted ; beer rarely. 
He never called for, purchased, or drew, wine for 
his own drinking ; but if it came in his way, and 
the company was not disagreeable to him, he would 
sit at table awhile after dinner, and take two or 
three glasses of any white wine, uniformly selecting 
the weakest.— T. J. Hogg ("Life of Shelley"). 

Shelley, says Trelawny, never smoked, but toler- 
ated any amount of smoking in Trelawny himself 
or others. — W. M. Rossetti (" Talks with Trelawny," 
AthencBum^ July 15, 1882). 



He had, . . . though a delicate, a naturally 
good constitution, which he had impaired at one 
period of his life by an excessive use of opium, ^ and 



* There does not appear to be any good corroborative evidence 
upon this point. One or two instances are recorded, by other 
biographers, when Shelley used opium ; but there is nothing to 
justify Medwin's assertion, or to warrant the inferences which 
might be drawn from it. 



Opium. 



lOO 



PERCY BYSSFIE SHELLEY. 



Fondness 
/jr bread. 



a Pythagorean diet, which greatly emaciated his 
system and weakened his digestion. — Thomas Med- 
wiN (''Life of Slielley"). 

Bysshe's dietary was frugal and independent ; 
very remarkable and quite peculiar to himself. 
When he felt hungry he would dash into the first 
baker's shop, buy a loaf and rush out again, bearing 
it under his arm ; and he strode onwards in his rapid 
course, breaking off pieces of bread and greedily 
swallowing them. But however frugal the fare, 
the waste was considerable, and his path might be 
tracked, like that of Hop-o'-my-Thumb through the 
wood, in Mother Goose her Tale, by a long line 
of crumbs. The spot where he sat reading or writ- 
ing, and eating his dry bread, was likewise marked 
out by a circle of crumbs and fragments scattered 
on the floor. He took Avith bread, frequently by 
w^ay of condiment, not water-cresses, as did the 
Persians of old, but common pudding raisins. 
These he purchased at some mean little shop, that 
he might be the more speedily served, and he car- 
ried them loose in his waistcoat-pocket, and eat 
them with his dry bread. . . . He was walking 
one day in London with a respectable solicitor, who 
occasionally transacted business for him ; with his 
accustomed precipitation he suddenly vanished, and 
as suddenly reappeared ; he had entered the shop 
of a little grocer in an obscure quarter, and had re- 
turned with some plums, which he held close under 
the attorney's nose, and the man of fact was as much 
astonished at the offer, as his client, the man of fancy, 
at the refusal. — T. J, Hogg ("Life of Shelley"). 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 



lOI 



He occasionally rolled up little pellets of bread, 
and, in a sly, mysterious manner, shot them with 
his thumb, hitting the persons — whom he met in his 
walks — on the face, commonly on the nose, at which 
lie grew to be very dextrous. When he was dining 
at a coffee-house, he would sometimes amuse himself 
thus. . . . A person receiving an unceremonious 
fillip on the nose, after this fashion, started and 
stared about; but I never found that anybody, al- 
though I was often apprehensive that some one 
might resent it, perceived or suspected, from what 
quarter the offending missile had come. The 
wounded party seemed to find satisfaction in gazing 
upwards, at the ceiling, and in the belief that a piece 
of plaster had fallen from thence. When he was 
eating his bread alone over his book he would 
shoot his pellets about the room, taking aim at a 
picture, at an image, or at any other object that at- 
tracted his notice. He had been taught by a French 
lady to make panada ; and w4th this food he often 
indulged himself. His simple cookery was per- 
formed thus. He broke a quantity— often, indeed, 
a surprising quantity — of bread into a large basin, 
and poured boiling water upon it. When the bread 
had been steeped awhile, and had swelled suffi- 
ciently, he poured off the water, squeezing it out of 
the bread, which he chopped up w^th a spoon ; he 
then sprinkled powdered loaf sugar over it, and 
grated nutmeg upon it, and devoured the mass with 
a prodigious relish. He was standing one day in 
the middle of the room, basin in hand, feeding him- 
self voraciously, gorging himself with pap. 

*' Why, Bysshe," T said, "you lap it up as greedily 



Bread- 
balls. 
Panada. 



102 



PERCY BY S SHE SHELLEY. 



" Lapping 

up the blood 

of the 

slain" 



Love of 

chemistry . 

£.ton. 



Life at Ox- 
ford. 



as the Valkyrise of Scandinavian story lap up the 
blood of the slain ! " 

''Aye!" he shouted out with grim delight, ''I 
lap up the blood of the slain ! " 

The idea captivated him ; he was continually re- 
peating the words; and he often took panada, I 
suspect, merely to indulge this wild fancy, and to 
say, " I am going to lap up the blood of the slain ! 
To sup up the gore of murdered kings." 

Having previously fed himself after his fashion 
from his private stores, he was independent of din- 
ner, and quite indifferent to it, the slice of tough 
mutton would remain, untouched upon his plate, 
and he would sit at table reading some book, often 
reading aloud, seemingly unconscious of the hos- 
pitable rites in which others were engaged, his 
bread bullets meanwhile being discharged in every 
direction.— T. J. Hogg (''Life of Shelley"). 

Shelley passed his leisure hours ^ in making vari- 
ous experiments in chemistry and natural science. 
He even went so far as to employ a travelling tinker 
to assist him in making a miniature steam-engine, 
which burst, and very nearly blew the bard and the 
Bethel family into the air. — R. H. Gronow (" Celeb- 
rities of London and Paris "). 

He was, indeed, a whole university in himself 
to me, in respect of the stimulus and incitement 
which his example afforded to my love of study, and 
he amply atoned for the disappointment I had felt 
on my arrival at Oxford. . . . We almost in- 

^ At Eton, in 1809. 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 



103 



variably passed the afternoon and evening together. 
. . . His rooms were preferred to mine, because 
there his philosophical apparatus was at hand ; and ^^^^Jf^*^'^' 
at that period he was not perfectly satisfied w4th 
the condition and circumstances of his existence, 
unless he was able to start from his seat at any 
moment, and seizing the air-pump, some magnets, 
the electrical machine, or the bottles contain- 
ing those noxious and nauseous fluids, wherewith 
he incessantly besmeared and disfigured himself 
and his goods, to ascertain by actual experiment 
the value of some new idea that rushed into his 
brain. He spent much time in working by fits and 
starts and in an irregular manner with his instru- 
ments, and especially consumed his hours and his 
money in the assiduous cultivation of chemistry. — 
T. J. Hogg {^' Life of Shelley "). 



He w^as a devoted worshipper of the water- 
nymphs ; for whenever he found a pool, or even a 
small puddle, he would loiter near it, and it was no 
easy task to get him to quit it. He had not yet 
learned that art, from which he afterward derived 
so much pleasure — the construction of paper-boats. 
He twisted a morsel of paper into a form that a 
lively fancy might consider a likeness of a boat, and 
committing it to the water, he anxiously v/atched the 
fortunes of the frail bark, which, if it was not soon 
swamped by the faint winds and miniature waves, 
gradually imbibed water through its porous sides, 
and sank. Sometimes, however, the fairy vessel 
performed its little voyage, and reached the op- 
posite shore of the puny ocean in safety. It is 



Paper-ban t 
navigation. 



104 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 



Paper-boat 
7itvigation. 



astonishing with what keen delight he engaged in 
this singular pursuit. It was not easy for an un- 
initiated spectator to bear with tolerable patience 
the vast delay, on the brink of a wretched pond 
upon a bleak common, and in the face of a cutting 
northeast wind, on returning to dinner from a long 
walk at sunset on a cold "winter's day. ... So 
long as his paper lasted, he remained riveted to the 
spot, fascinated by this peculiar amusement; all 
waste paper was rapidly consumed, then the covers 
of letters, next letters of little value ; the most 
precious contributions of the most esteemed corre- 
spondence, although eyed wistfully many times, 
and often returned to the pocket, were sure to be 
sent at last in pursuit of the former squadrons. 
. . . It has been said, that he once found himself 
on the north bank of the Serpentine River w^ithout 
the materials for indulging those inclinations, which 
the sight of water invariably inspired, for he had 
exhausted his supplies on the round pond in Ken- 
sington Gardens. Not a single scrap of paper 
could be found, save only a bank-post bill for fifty 
pounds; he hesitated long, but yielded at last ; he 
twisted it into a boat with the extreme refinement 
of his skill, and committed it with the utmost 
dexterity to fortune, watching its progress, if pos- 
sible, with a still more intense anxiety than usual. 
Fortune often favors those who frankly and fully 
trust her ; the northeast w^ind gently w^afted the 
costly skiff to the south bank, where, during the 
latter part of the voyage, the venturous owner had 
awaited its arrival with patient solicitude. — T. J. 
Hogg (''Life of Shelley"). 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 



105 



At times he was as sportive as his child (with 
whom he would play by the hour on the floor), and 
his wit flowed in a continual stream — not that broad 
humor which is so much in vogue at the present 
day, but a genuine wit, classical I might say, and 
refined, that caused a smile rather than a laugh.' — 
Thomas Medwin (" Life of Shelley "). 

Shelley often came to Hampstead to see me, 
sometimes to stop for several days. He delighted 
in the natural broken ground, and in the fresh air 
of the place, especially when the wind set in from 
the northwest, which used to give him an intoxica- 
tion of animal spirits. Here also he swam his paper- 
boats on the ponds, and delighted to play with my 
children, particularly with my eldest boy,'' the seri- 
ousness of whose imagination, and his susceptibil- 
ity of a ''grim" impression (a favorite epithet of 
Shelley's), highly interested him. He would play at 
" frightful creatures " with him, from which the 
other would snatch a "fearful joy," only begging 
him occasionally "not to do the horn," which was 
a way Shelley had of screwing up his hair in front, 
to imitate a weapon of that sort. — Leigh Hunt 
C' Autobiography "). 

I can remember well one day when we were both 
for some long time engaged in gambols, broken off 



'Charles Cowden Clarke, in " Recollections of Writers," says, 
*' I have the remembrance of his scampering and bounding over 
the gorse-bushes on Hampstead Heath late one night, — now close 
upon us, and now shouting from the height, like a wild school-boy." 

2 Thornton Hunt. 



Playfulnesc. 



Playing^ 

with chil- 

df en. 



io6 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 



Playing 
ivith chil- 
dren. 



Rambles 
with a boy. 



by my terror at his screwing up his long and curling 
hair into a horn, and approaching me with rampant 
paws and frightful gestures as some imaginative 
monster. — Thornton Hunt {Atlantic Monthly^ Feb- 
ruaiy, 1863). 

Shelley often called me for a long ramble on the 
heath, or into regions which I then thought far distant; 
and I went with him rather than with my father, be- 
cause he walked faster, and talked with me while he 
walked, instead of being lost in his own thoughts 
and conversing only at intervals. A love of wan- 
dering seemed to possess him in the most literal 
sense ; his rambles seemed to be without design, or 
any limit but my fatigue ; and when I w^as " done 
up," he carried me home in his arms, on his shoul- 
der, or pickback. Our communion was not always 
concord ; as I have intimated, he took a pleasure 
in frightening me, though I never really lost my 
confidence in his protection, if he would only 
drop the fantastic aspects that he delighted to 
assume. — Thornton Hunt {Atlantic Monthly^ Feb- 
ruary, 1863). 

I have already pointed out several contradictions 
in his appearance and character ; his ordinary prep- 
aration for a rural "walk formed a very remarkable 
contrast with his mild aspect and pacific habits. 
He furnished himself with a pair of duelling pis- 
tols, and a good store of powder and ball ; and 
when he came to a solitary spot, he pinned a card, 
or fixed some other mark upon a tree or bank, and 
amused himself by firing at it ; he was a pretty 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 



107 



good shot, and was much delighted at his success/ 
. . . The duelling pistols were a most discord- 
ant interruption of the repose of a quiet country 
walk ; besides, he handled them with such inconceiv- 
able carelessness, that I had perpetually reason to 
apprehend that . . . he would shoot himself, or 
me, or both of us. — T. J. Hogg (" Life of Shelley "). 

Shelley loved everything better than himself. 
Self-preservation is, they say, the first law of nature, 
with him it was the last ; and the only pain he ever 
gave his friends arose from the utter indifference 
with which he treated everything concerning himself. 
I was bathing one day in a deep pool in the Arno, 
and astonished the poet by performing a series of 
aquatic gymnastics, which I had learned from the 
nativ^es of the South Seas. On my coming out, 
Avhilst dressing, Shelley said, mournfully, "Why 
can't I swim, it seems so very easy ? " I answ^ered, 
" Because you think you can't. If you determine, 
you will ; take a header off this bank, and when 
you rise turn on your back, you will float like a 
duck ; but you must reverse the arch in your Lpine, 
for it's now bent the wrong way." He doffed his 
jacket and trowsers, kicked off his shoes and socks, 
and plunged in ; and there he lay stretched out on 
the bottom like a conger-eel, not making the least 
effort or struggle to save himself. He would have 
been drowned if I had not instantly fished him out. 
When he recovered his breath, he said : " I always 



* Leigh Hunt, Trelawny, and others tell of his fondness for this 
amusement, and how he and Byron joined in the sport, during 
their life together in Italy. 



Rambles 
nvith a boy. 



C (I re less of 
his oivn 
safety. 



io8 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 



Careless of 
his o-ivn 
safety. 



Ifidiffer- 
ence to 
death. 



Prussia 
acid. 



find the bottom of the well, and they say Truth lies 
there. In another minute I should have found it, 
and you would have found an empty shell. It is an 
easy way of getting rid of the body." '• What would 
Mrs. Shelley have said to me if I had gone back to 
her with your empty cage?" "Don't tell Mar}^ — 
not a word ! " he rejoined, and then continued, *' It's 
a great temptation ; in another minute, I might 
have been in another planet." — E. J. Trelawny 
(" Records of Shelley, Byron," etc.). 

He was once with me in a gale of wind, in a 
small boat, right under the rocks between Meillerie 
and St. Gingo. We were five in the boat — a servant, 
two boatmen, and ourselves. The sail was mis- 
managed, and the boat was filling fast. He can't 
swim. I stripped off my coat, made him strip oiff 
his, and take hold of an oar, telling him that I 
thought (being myself an expert swimmer) I could 
save him, if he would not struggle when I took hold 
of him. . . . We were then about a hundred 
yards from shore, and the boat in peril. He an- 
swered me with the greatest coolness, that he had 
no notion of being saved, and that I would have 
enough to do to save myself, and begged not to 
trouble me. Luckily the boat righted, and, bailing, 
we got round a point into St. Gingo. — Lord Byron 
(quoted in Moore's ''Life of Byron "). 

Lerici, yiine i8, 1822. — My dear Trelawny, 
. . . You, of course, enter into society at Leg- 
horn : should you meet with any scientific person, 
capable of preparing the Frussic Acid, or essential 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 



109 



oil of bitter almonds, I should regard it as a great 
kindness if you could procure me a small quantity. 
. . . I woulgl give any price for this medicine ; 
you remember we talked of it the other night, and 
we both expressed a wish to possess it ; my wish 
was serious, and sprung from the desire of avoiding 
needless suffering. I need not tell you I have no 
intention of suicide at present, but I confess it 
would be a comfort to me to hold in my possession 
that golden key to the chamber of perpetual rest. — 
Percy B. Shelley (*' Works in Verse and Prose"). 

I never visited his rooms until one o'clock, by 
which hour, as I rose very early, I had not only at- 
tended the college lectures, but had read in private 
for several hours. I was enabled, moreover, to 
continue my studies afterwards in the evening, in 
consequence of a very remarkable peculiarity. My 
young and energetic friend was then overcome by 
extreme drowsiness, which speedily and completely 
vanquished him ; he would sleep from two to four 
hours, often so soundly that his shimbers resembled 
a deep lethargy ; he lay occasionally upon the sofa, 
but more commonly stretched upon the rug before 
a large fire, like a cat ; and his little round head 
was exposed to such a fierce heat, that I used to 
wonder how he was able to bear it/ Sometimes I 



' Shelley's treatment of his head was peculiar. In addition to 
toasting it before a hot fire, and exposing it, whenever he could, 
to the hottest rays of the sun, Hogg tells us of another mode of 
treatment: "The poor, imaginative head was plunged several 
times a day into a basin full of cold water, which he invariably 
filled brimful, in order to throw as much water as possible on his 
feet and the floor." 



Prussic 
acid. 



Napfiing en 
the hearth. 



no 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 



Napping on 
the hearth. 



Somnatn- 
bulism. 



have interposed some shelter, but rarely with any 
permanent effect ; for the sleeper usually contrived 
to turn himself, and to roll again into the spot 
where the fire glowed the brightest. His torpor 
was generally profound, but he would sometimes 
discourse incoherently for a long while in his sleep. 
At six he would suddenly compose himself, even in 
the midst of a most animated narrative or of earnest 
discussion ; and he would lie buried in entire for- 
getfulness, in a sweet and mighty oblivion, until 
ten, when he would suddenly start up, and rubbing 
his eyes with great violence, and passing his fin- 
gers swiftly through his long hair, would enter at 
once into a vehement argument, or begin to recite 
verses, either of his own composition or from the 
works of others, with a rapidity and an energy that 
were often quite painful. — T. J. Hogg ("Life of 
Shelley"). 

His systematizing of dreams, and encouraging, if 
I may so say, the habit of dreaming, ... re- 
vived in him his old somnambulism. As an in- 
stance of this, being in Leicester Square one morn- 
ing at five o'clock, I was attracted by a group of 
boys collected round a well-dressed person lying 
near the rails. On coming up to them, my curiosity 
being excited, I descried Shelley, who had uncon- 
sciously spent a part of the night sub dio. He could 
give me no account of how he got there. ^ — Thomas 
Medwin (" Life of Shelley "). 



^ Medwin gives two other instances of Shelley's somnambulism : 
one, when he was a school-boy, the other, during his life in Italy. 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 



II 



He took strange caprices, unfounded frights and 
dislikes, vain apprehensions and panic terrors, and 
therefore he absented himself from formal and sa- 
cred engagements. He was unconscious and ob- 
livious of times, persons, and seasons ; and falling 
into some poetic vision, some day-dream, he quickly 
and completely forgot all that he had repeatedly 
and solemnly promised ; or he ran away after some 
object of imaginary urgency and importance, which 
suddenly came into his head, setting off in vain 
pursuit of it, he knew not whither. — T. J. Hogg 
("Life of Shelley"). 

In a crowded stage-coach Shelley once happened 
to sit opposite an old woman with very thick legs, 
who, as he imagined, was afflicted with elephantiasis, 
an exceedingly rare and most terrible disease, in 
which the legs swell and become as thick as those 
of an elephant, together with many other distressing 
symptoms, as the thickening and cracking of the 
skin, and indeed a w^hole Iliad of woes, of which he 
had recently read a formidable description in some 
medical work, that had taken entire possession of 
his fanciful and impressible soul. The patient, 
quite unconscious of her misery, sat dozing quietly 
over against him. He also took it into his head 
that the disease is veiy infectious, and that he had 
caught it of his corpulent and drowsy fellow-trav- 
eller ; he presently began to discover unequivocal 
symptoms of the fearful contagion in his own per- 
son. I never saw him so thoroughly unhappy as 
he was, whilst he continued under the influence of 
this strange and unaccountable impression. His 



Crotchety 
freaks. 



A hypochon- 
driac 
7vhivt. 
Elephanti- 
asis. 



112 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 



A kypochon- 

driac 

whim. 

Elephanti- 



female friends tried to laugh him out of this pre- 
posterous whim, bantered him and inquired how he 
came to find out that his fair neighbor had such 
thick legs ? He did not relish, or even understand 
their jests, but sighed deeply. By the advice of his 
friends, he was prevailed upon to consult a skilful 
and experienced surgeon, and submitted to a minute 
and careful examination : the surgeon of course as- 
sured him that no signs or traces of elephantiasis 
could be discerned. He farther informed him that 
the disease is excessively rare, almost unknown, in 
this part of the world ; that it is not infectious, and 
that a person really afflicted by it could not bear to 
travel in a crowded stage-coach. Bysshe shook his 
head, sighed more deeply, and was more thoroughly 
convinced than ever that he was the victim of a 
cruel and incurable disease ; and that these assur- 
ances were only given with the humane design of 
soothing one doomed to a miserable and inevitable 
death. His imagination was so much disturbed, 
that he was perpetually examining his own skin, and 
feeling and looking at that of others. One evening, 
during the access of his fancied disorder, when many 
young ladies were standing up for a country dance, 
he caused a wonderful consternation among these 
charming creatures by walking slowly along the 
row of girls and curiously surveying them, placing 
his eyes close to their necks and bosoms, and feeling 
their breasts and bare arms, in order to ascertain 
whether any of the fair ones had taken the horrible 
disease. He proceeded with so much gravity and 
seriousness, and his looks were so woe-begone, that 
they did not resist, or resent, the extraordinary lib- 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 



113 



erties, but looked terrified, and as if they were 
about to undergo some severe surgical operation at 
his hands. Their partners were standing opposite 
in silent and angry amazement, unable to decide in 
what way the strange manipulations were to be 
taken ; yet nobody interrupted his heart-broken 
handlings, which seemed, from his dejected air, to 
be preparatory to cutting his own throat. At last 
the lady of the house perceived what the young 
philosopher was about, and by assuring him that 
not one of the young ladies, as she had herself as- 
certained, had been infected, and, with gentle ex- 
postulations, induced him to desist, and to suffer 
the dancing to proceed without further examina- 
tions. 

The monstrous delusion continued for some days ; 
with the aspect of grim despair he came stealthily 
and opened the bosom of my shirt several times a 
day, and minutely inspected my skin, shaking his 
head, and by his distressed mien plainly signifying 
that he was not by any means satisfied with the 
state of my health. He also quietly drew up my 
sleeves, and by rubbing it investigated the skin of 
my arms ; also measured my legs and ankles, span- 
ning them with a convulsive grasp. '' Bysshe, wx 
both have the legs and the skin of an elephant, but 
neither of us has his sagacity ! " He shook his head 
in sad, silent disapproval ; to jest in the very jaws 
of death was hardened insensibility, not genuine 
philosophy. . . . This strange fancy continued 
to afflict him for several weeks, and to divert, or 
distress, his friends, and then it was forgotten as 
suddenly as it had been taken up, and gave place to 
I.— 8 



A hyphen- 
driac 
ivhhfi. 
Elephanti- 
asis, 



114 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 



A vision. 



Sensitive- 
ness. 



more cheerful reminiscences or forebodings. — T. J. 
Hogg (''Life of Shelley"). 

The journal of Edward Williams contains the fol- 
lowing account of one of the many hallucinations 
to which, throughout the whole course of his life, 
Shelley was subject. Portions of this journal were 
published by Mrs. Shelley and by Richard Garnet ; 
the present extract is made from H. B. Forman's 
edition of Shelley's works : 

Monday^ May 6, 1822. — After tea, walking witli 
Shelley on the terrace, and observing the effect of 
moonshine on the waters, he complained of being 
unusually nervous, and stopping short, he grasped 
me violently by the arm, and stared steadfastly on 
the white surf that broke upon the beach under our 
feet. Observing him sensibly affected, I demanded 
of him if he were in pain ? But he only answered, 
by saying, " There it is again — there ! " He recov- 
ered after some time, and declared that he saw, 
as plainly as he then saw me, a naked child {the 
child of a friend who had lately died) rise from the 
sea, and clap its hands as in joy, smiling at him. 
This was a trance that it required some reasoning 
and philosophy entirely to awaken him from, so 
forcibly had the vision operated on his mind. 

Shelley was of an extreme sensibility — of a mor- 
bid sensibility — and strange, discordant sounds he 
could not bear to hear ; he shrank from the unmu- 
sical voice of the Caledonian maiden.^ Whenever 



The maid of all work in Shelley's lodging in Edinburgh. 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 



115 



Sensitive- 
ness. 



she entered the room, or even came to the door, he 
rushed wildly into a corner and covered his ears 
■with his hands. We had, to our shame be it 
spoken, a childish, mischievous delight in torment- 
ing him, and catching the shy virgin and making 
her speak in his presence. The favorite interroga- 
tory so often administered was, " Have you had 
your dinner to-day, Christie?" "Yes." "And 
what did you get ?" '^Singit heed and bonnocks," 
was the unvarying answer, and its efficacy was in- 
stantaneous and sovereign. Our poor sensitive 
poet assumed the air of the Distracted Musician, 
became nearly frantic, and had we been on the prom- 
ontory, he w^ould certainly have taken the Leu- 
cadian leap for Christie's sake, and to escape from 
the rare music of her voice. — T. J. Hogg (" Life of 
Shelley "). 



Like many other over-sensitive people, he 
thought everybody shunned him, whereas it was he 
who stood aloof. To the few who sought his 
acquaintance, he was frank, cordial, and if they 
appeared worthy, friendly in the extreme ; but he 
shrank like a maiden from making the first ad- 
vances. At the beginning of his literary life, he 
believed all authors published their opinions as he 
did his from a deep conviction of their truth and 
importance, after due investigation. When a new 
work appeared, on any subject that interested him, 
he would write to the authors, expressing his opin- 
ion of their books, and giving his reasons for his 
judgment, always arguing logically, and not for 
display ; and, with his serene and imperturbable 



Shynessand 
frankness. 



ii6 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 



Skynessand 
frankness. 



Delicacy of 
jnind. 



Iw a Pres- 
byterian 
church if I 
Edinburgh, 



temper, variety of knowledge, tenacious memory, 
command of language, or rather of all the lan- 
guages of literature, he was a most subtle critic ; 
but, as authors are not tlie meekest or mildest of 
men, he occasionally met with rude rebuffs, and re- 
tired into his own shell. — E. J. Trelawny (" Records 
of Shelley, Byron," etc.). 



Though the least effeminate of men, so far as 
personal or moral courage was concerned, the mind 
of Shelley was essentially feminine, some would 
say fastidious in its delicacy; an innate purity 
which not even the license of college habits and 
society could corrupt. A fellow-collegian thus 
writes of him : '' Shelley was actually offended, 
and, indeed, more indignant than would seem to be 
consistent with the singular mildness of his nature, 
at a coarse and awkward jest, especially if it were 
immodest or uncleanly ; in the latter case his anger 
was unbounded, and his uneasiness pre-eminent." — 
Anonymous ("A Graybeard's Gossip," New Monthly 
Magazine^ 1847). 

We reached a place of worship, and entered it 
with the rest ; it was plain, spacious, and gloomy. 
We suffered ourselves rather incautiously to be 
planted side by side, on a bench in the middle of 
the devout assembly, so that escape was impossible. 
There was singing, in which all, or almost all, the 
congregation joined ; it Avas loud, and discordant, 
and protracted. There was praying, there was 
preaching, — both extemporaneous. We prayed for 
all sorts and conditions of men, more particularly 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 



In a Pres- 
byterian 
church ht 
Edinburgh. 



for our enemies. The preacher discoursed at a 
prodigious length, repeating many times things 
which were not worthy to be said once, and threat- 
ening us much with the everlasting punishments, 
which, solemnly and confidently, he declared were 
in store for us. T never saw Shelley so dejected, 
so desponding, so despairing ; he looked like the 
picture of perfect wretchedness ; the poor fellow 
sighed piteously, as if his heart w^ould break. If 
they thought that he was conscience-stricken, and 
that his vast sorrow was for his sins, all, who observed 
him, must have been delighted with him, as with 
one filled with the comfortable assurance of eternal 
perdition. No one present could possibly have 
comprehended the real nature of his acute suffer- 
ings, — could have sympathized in the anguish and 
agony of a creature of the most poetic temperament 
that ever was bestowed, for his weal or his woe, 
upon any human being, at feeling himself in the 
most unpoetic position in which he could possibly be 
placed. At last, after expectations many times dis- 
appointed of an approaching deliverance, and having 
been repeatedly deceived by glimpses of an impend- 
ing discharge, and having long endured that sick- 
ness of heart caused by hopes deferred, the tedious 
worship actually terminated. — T. J. Hogg (" Life of 
Shelley "). 



No student ever read more assiduously. He was 
to be found, book in hand, at all hours ; reading in 
season and out of season ; at table, in bed, and es- 
pecially during a walk ; not only in the quiet coun- 
try, and in retired paths ; not only at Oxford, in the 



Reading, 



ii8 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 



Reading, 



Friendly 
strategy. 



public walks, and High Street, but in the most 
crowded thoroughfares of London. Nor was he 
less absorbed by the volume that was open before 
him, in Cheapside, in Cranbourne Alley, or in Bond 
Street, than in a lonely lane, or a secluded library. 
. . . I never beheld eyes that devoured the pages 
more voraciously than his : I am convinced that 
two-thirds of the period of day and night were often 
employed in reading. It is no exaggeration to af- 
firm, that out of the twenty-four hours, he frequently 
read sixteen. . . . Tea and toast were often neg- 
lected, his author seldom. . . . He invariably 
sallied forth, book in hand, reading to himself, if he 
was alone, if he had a companion, reading aloud. 
He took a volume to bed with him, and read as long 
as his candle lasted ; he then slept — impatiently, no 
doubt — until it was light, and he recommenced 
reading at the early dawn. — T. J. Hogg (" Life of 
Shelley "). 

On the evening of a wet day, when we bad read 
with scarcely any intermission from an early hour 
in the morning, I have urged him to lay aside his 
book. It required some extravagance to rouse him 
to join heartily in conversation ; to tempt him to 
avoid the chimney-piece, on which commonly he 
had laid the open volume. 

** If I were to read as long as you read, Shelley, 
my hair and my teeth would be strewed about on 
the floor, and my eyes would slip down my cheeks 
into my waistcoat pockets ; or at least I should be- 
come so weary and nervous that I should not know 
whether it were so or not." 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 



119 



He began to scrape the carpet with his feet, as if 
teeth were actually lying upon it, and he looked fix- 
edly at my face, and his lively fancy represented the 
empty sockets ; his imagination was excited, and 
tlie spell that bound him to his books was broken, 
and creeping close to the fire, and, as it were, under 
the fireplace, he commenced a most animated dis- 
course.— T. J. Hogg (" Life of Shelley "). 

Shelley's thirst for knowledge was unquenchable. 
He set to work on a book, or a pyramid of books ; 
his eyes glistening with an energy as fierce as that of 
the most sordid gold-digger who works at a rock of 
quartz, crushing his way through all impediments, 
no grain of the pure ore escaping his eager scrutiny. 
I called on him one morning at ten ; he was in his 
study with a German folio open, resting on the 
broad marble mantel-piece, over an old-fashioned 
fireplace, and with a dictionary in his hand. He 
always read standing if possible. He had promised 
over night to go with me, but now begged me to 
let him off. I then rode to Leghorn, eleven or 
twelve miles distant, and passed the day there ; on 
returning at six in the evening, to dine with Mrs. 
Shelley and the Williamses, as I had engaged to do, 
I went into the poet's room, and found him ex- 
actly in the position in which I had left him in the 
morning, but looking pale and exhausted. 

" Well," I said, " have you found it ? " 

Shutting the book and going to the window, he 
replied, " No, I have lost it ; " with a deep sigh ; 
'■'■ I have lost a day." 

" Cheer up, my lad, and come to dinner." 



Friendly 
strategy. 



Story of a 
day. 



I20 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 



Story of a 
day. 



In the pine 

forest 7iear 

Pisa. 



Putting his long fingers through his masses of 
wild tangled hair, he answered faintly, '* You go, I 
have dined — late eating don't do for me." 

''What is this?" I asked, as I was going out of 
the room, pointing to one of his book-shelves with a 
plate containing bread and cold meat on it. 

"That," — coloring, — " why that must be my din- 
ner. It's very foolish ; I thought I had eaten it." 
Saying I was determined that he should for once 
have a regular meal, I lugged him into the dining- 
room, but he brought a book with him, and read 
more than he ate. — E. J. Trelawny (" Records of 
Shelley, Byron," etc.).. 

With no landmarks to guide me, nor sky to be 
I seen above, I was bewildered in this wilderness of 
I pines and ponds ; so I sat down, struck a light, and 
smoked a cigar. A red man would have known his 
course of the trees themselves, their growth, form, 
and color ; or if a footstep had passed that day, he 
would have hit upon its trail. As I mused upon 
his sagacity and my own stupidity, the braying of a 
brother jackass startled me. He was followed by 
an old man picking up pine-cones. I asked him if 
he had seen a stranger. 

" L'Inglese malincolico haunts the woods male- 
detta — I will show you his nest" 

As we advanced, the ground swelled into mounds 
and hollows. By and by the old fellow pointed 
with his stick to a hat, books, and loose papers lying 
about, and then to a deep pool of dark glimmering 
water, saying, " Eccolo ! " I thought he meant that 
Shelley was in or under the water. The careless, 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 



121 



not to say impatient, way in which the poet bore his 
burden of life, caused a vague dread among his 
family and friends that he might lose or cast it away 
at any moment. 

The strong light streamed through the opening 
of the trees. One of the pines, undermined by the 
water, had fallen into it. Under its lee, and nearly 
hidden, sat the poet, gazing below on the dark 
mirror beneath, so lost in his bardish reverie that he 
did not hear my approach. There the trees were 
stunted and bent, and their crowns were shorn 
like friars by the sea-breezes, excepting a cluster 
of three, under which Shelley's traps were lying ; 
these overtopped the rest. To avoid startling the 
poet out of his dream, I squatted under the lofty 
trees, and opened his books. One was a volume of 
his favorite Greek dramatist, Sophocles, — the same 
that I found in his pocket after his death, and the 
other was a volume of Shakespeare. I then hailed 
him, and, turning his head, he answered faintly, 
** Hollo, come in." " Is this your study ? " I asked. 
" Yes," he answered, '' and these trees are my 
books — they tell no lies. You are sitting on the 
stool of inspiration," he exclaimed. " In those 
three pines the weird sisters are imprisoned, and 
this," pointing to the water, *'is their caldron of 
black broth. The Pythian priestesses uttered their 
oracles from below — now they are muttered from 
above. Listen to the solemn music in the pine-tops 
— don't you hear the mournful murmurings of the 
sea ? Sometimes they rave and roar, shriek and 
howl, like a rabble of priests. la a tempest, when 
a ship sinks, they catch the despairing groans of the 



In the fii/te 

/or est 7iear 

Pisa. 



122 



PER CY B YSSHE SHELLE V. 



In the pine 

Jjrest near 

Pisa. 



drowning mariners. Their chorus is the eternal 
wailing of wretched men." 

''They, lilce the world," I observed, "seem to 
take no note of wretched women. The sighs and 
wailing you talk about are not those of wretched 
men afar off, but are breathed by a woman near at 
hand — not from the pine-tops, but by a forsaken 
lady." ''What do you mean ?" he asked. "Why, 
that an hour or two ago I left your wnfe, Mary 
Shelley, at the entrance of this grove, in despair at 
not finding you." 

He started up, snatched up his scattered books 
and papers, thrust them into his hat and jacket 
pockets, sighing "Poor Mary! hers is a sad fate. 
Come along ; she can't bear solitude, nor I society 
— the quick coupled with the dead." He glided 
along with his usual swiftness, for nothing could 
make him pause for an instant when he had an ob- 
ject in view, until he had attained it.^ On hearing 
our voices, Mrs. Shelley joined us ; her clear gray 
eyes and thoughtful brow expressing the love she 
could not speak. To stop Shelley's self-reproaches, 
or to hide her own emotions, she began in a ban- 
tering tone, chiding and coaxing him ; . . . 

Shelley, like other students, would, when the spell 
that bound his faculties was broken, shut his books 
and indulge in the wildest flights of mirth and 
folly. As this is a sport all can join in, we talked, 
and laughed, and shrieked, and shouted, as we 



^ W. M. Rossetti notes, in his "Talks witli Trelawny," ** 1870, 
March 11. 'Shelley,' he said, 'was more self-willed than my- 
self;' with exquisite gentleness of manner he would always do, 
and do on the instant, what he resolved on." 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 



123 



emerged from under the shadows of the melancholy 
pines and their nodding plumes, into the now cool 
purple twilight and open country. The cheerful 
and graceful peasant girls, returning home from the 
vineyards and olive groves, stopped to look at us. 
The old man I had met in the morning gathering 
pine-cones, passed hurriedly by with his donkey, 
giving Shelley a wide berth, and evidently thinking 
that the melancholy Englishman had now become 
a raving maniac. — E. J. Trelawny ('* Records of 
Shelley, Byron," etc.). 

The day I found Shelley in the pine forest, he was 
writing verses on a guitar. I picked up a fragment, 
but could only make out the first two lines : 

" Ariel, to Miranda take 
This slave of music." 

It was in a frightful scrawl ; words smeared out 
with his finger, and one upon the other, over and 
over in tiers, and all run together in most "admired 
disorder;" it might have been taken for a sketch 
of a marsh overgrown with bulrushes, and the blots 
for wild geese ; such a dashed-oif daub as self-con- 
ceited artists mistake for a manifestation of genius. 
On my observing this to him, he answered, 

''When my brain gets heated with thought, it 
soon boils, and throws off images and words faster 
than I can skim them off. In the morning, when 
cooled down, out of the rude sketch as you justly 
call it, I shall attempt a drawing. If you ask me 
why I publish what few or none will care to read, it 
is that the spirits I have raised haimt me until they 



Ik the pine 

forest near 

Ftsa. 



Methods 0/ 
work. 



124 



PERCY BYSSFIE SHELLEY. 



Working- 
out of doors. 



Extempore 
rhyming^ 



are sent to the devil of a printer. All authors are 
anxious to breech their bantlings." — E. J. Tre- 
LAWNY (" Records of Shelley, Byron," etc.). 

Throughout his life Shelley loved to work in the 
open air. Mrs. Shelley says that "The Revolt of 
Islam " ''was written in his boat, as it floated under 
the beech-groves of Bisham, or during wanderings 
in the neighboring country." He wrote "The 
Cenci" upon the roof of his villa at Leghorn." 
" The Triumph of Life " was written in his boat, in 
the Bay of Spezia. In 1880 Trelawny said, in an- 
swer to the question, " Did Shelley ever shut him- 
self up to write ? " '* Shut himself up ! " shouted 
Mr. Trelawny indignantly. " Never ! He wrote 
his poems in the open air ; on the sea-shore ; in the 
pine woods ; and, like a shepherd, he could tell the 
time of day exactly by the light. He never had a 
watch, and I think Byron never had ; but, if the 
latter had one, he never wore it." 

On one occasion, I remember a remarkable in- 
stance of Shelley's facility and exercise of imagina- 
tion. A word was chosen, and all the rhymes to it 
in the language, and they were very numerous, set 
down, without regard to their corresponding mean- 
ings, and in a few minutes he filled in the blanks 
with a beautifully fanciful poem, which, probably, 
no one preserved, though now I should highly prize 
such a relic. — Thomas Medwin ('' Life of Shelley "). 

I induced him one evening to accompany me to 
a representation of the " School for Scandal." When, 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 



125 



after the scenes which exhibited Charles Surface in 
his jollity, the scene returned, in the fourth act, to 
yosepJis library, Shelley said to me, — '' Isee the pur- 
pose of this comedy. It is to associate virtue with 
bottles and glasses, and villany with books." I had 
great difficulty to make him stay to the end. He 
often talked of the withering and perverting spirit 
of comedy. I do not think he ever went to another. 
— T. L. Peacock {Eraser's Magazine^ June, 1858). 

November 6, 181 7. — I went to Godwin's. Mr. 
Shelley was there. I had never seen him before. 
His youth, and a resemblance to Southey, particu- 
larly in his voice, raised a pleasing impression, 
which was not altogether destroyed by his conver- 
sation, though it is vehement, and arrogant, and in- 
tolerant. He was very abusive towards Southey, 
whom he spoke of as having sold himself to the 
Court. And this he maintained with the usual party 
slang. . . . Shelley spoke of Wordsworth with 
less bitterness, but with an insinuation of his insin- 
cerity, etc.— Henry Crabb Robinson ("Diary," etc.).' 

Shelley Haydon met occasionally. His account 
of their first meeting, in 1816, is characteristic ; 
it was at a dinner — one of the last he went to at 
Leigh Hunt's. Haydon arrived late and took his 
place at the table. Opposite to him sat a hectic, 
spare, intellectual-looking creature, carving a bit of 
broccoli on his plate as if it were the substantial 



^ Robinson (Henry Crabb). Diary, Reminiscences, and Corre- 
spondence. Edited by T. Sadler. 3 vols., 8vo. London, 1869. 



Prejudice 
agaitisi 
comedy. 



Arrogant 

and intoler' 

ant. 



Aggressive 
table-talk. 



126 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 



Aggressive 
table-talk. 



In society. 



wing of a chicken. This was Shelley. Suddenly, 
in the most feminine and gentle voice, Shelley said, 
" As to that detestable religion, the Christian," ^ — 
Haydon looked up. But says he in his diary, *' On 
casting a glance round the table, I easily saw by 
Leigh Hunt's expression of ecstasy and the simper 
of the women, I was to be set at that evening 'vi et 
armis.' I felt exactly like a stag at bay, and I re- 
solved to gore without mercy." The result was a 
heated and passionate argument. — F. W. Haydon 
C Haydon's Correspondence," "^ etc.). 

I have had the happiness to associate with some 
of the best specimens of gentlemen ; but with all 
due deference for those admirable persons (may my 
candor and my preference be pardoned), I can 
affirm that Shelley was almost the only example I 
have yet found that was never wanting, even in the 
most minute particular, of the infinite and various 
observances of pure, entire, and perfect gentility. — 
T. J. Hogg (" Life of Shelley "). 

I have seen Shelley and Byron in society, and the 
contrast was as marked as their characters. The 



' In a letter to Horace Smith, in 1822, Shelley says that if he 
had any influence with Byron he " should employ it to eradicate 
from his great mind the delusions of Christianity." He further 
says, in the same letter : "I differ with Moore in thinking Chris- 
tianity useful to the world ; no man of sense can think it true." 
See p. 132. 

^ Haydon (Frederick W.). Benjamin Robert Haydon : Corre- 
spondence and Table-talk, with a Memoir. 2 vols., 8vo. London, 
1876. 



PER CY B YSSHE SHELLE Y. 



127 



former, not thinking of himself, was as much at ease 
as in his own liome, omitting no occasion of oblig- 
ing those whom he came in contact with, readily 
conversing with all or any who addressed him, irre- 
spective of age or rank, dress or address. To the 
first party I went with Byron, as we were on our 
road, he said, " It's so long since I have been in 
English society, you must tell me what are their 
present customs. Does rank lead the way, or does 
the ambassadress pair us off into the dining-room ? 
Do they ask people to wine ? Do we exit with the 
women, or stick to our claret ? " On arriving, he was 
flushed, fussy, embarrassed, over-ceremonious, and 
ill at ease, evidently thinking a great deal of him- 
self, and very little of others. — E. J. Trelawny 
("Records of Shelley, Byron," etc.). 

One morning I was in Mrs. Williams' drawling- 
room. . . . Shelley stood before us with a most 
w^oful expression. Mrs. Williams started up, ex- 
claiming, '* What's the matter, Percy ? " " Mary has 
threatened me." " Threatened you with what ? " 
He looked mysterious, and too agitated to reply. 
Mrs. Williams repeated, *' With what t to box your 
ears?" "Oh, much worse than that; Mary says 
she will have a party ; there are English sing- 
ers here, the Sinclairs, and she will ask them, and 
every one she or you know — oh, the horror ! " We 
all burst into a laugh except his friend Ned. "It 
will kill me." "Music kill you!" said Mrs. Wil- 
liams. "Why, you have told me, you flatterer, 
that you loved music." " So I do. It's the company 
that terrifies me. For pity go to Mary and inter- 



Contrasted 
with Byron. 



Dread of 
bores. 



128 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 



Interest in 
national 
affairs. 



cede for me ; I will submit to any other species of 
torture than that of being bored to death by idle 
ladies and gentlemen." — E. J. Trelawny ('' Records 
of Shelley, Byron," etc.). 

Shelley was not only anxious for the good of 
mankind in general. We have seen what he pro- 
posed on the subject of Reform in Parliament,^ and 
he was always very desirous of the national welfare. 
It was a moot point when he entered your room, 
whether he would begin with some half-pleasant, 
half-pensive joke, or quote something Greek, or ask 
some question about public affairs. He once came 
upon me at Hampstead, when I had not seen him 
for some time ; and after grasping my hands into 
both of his, in his usual fervent manner, he sat 
down, and looked at me very earnestly, with a deep, 
though not melancholy interest in his face. We 
were sitting with our knees to the fire, to which we 
had been getting nearer and nearer, in the comfort 
of finding ourselves together. The pleasure of see- 
ing him was my only feeling at the moment ; and 
the air of domesticity about us was so complete, 
that I thought he was going to speak of some family 
matter, either his or my own, when he asked me, at 
the close of an intensity of pause, what was "the 
amount of the National Debt." 

I used to rally him on the apparent inconsequen- 
tiality of his manner upon these occasions, and he 
was always ready to carry on the jest, because he 



^ He had offered to subscribe one thousand pounds toward 
founding an association to carry on this work. 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 



129 



said that my laughter did not hinder my being in 
earnest. — Leigh Hunt (''Autobiography"). 

I never could discern in him any more than two 
fixed principles. The first was a strong irrepres- 
sible love of liberty ; of liberty in the abstract, and 
somewhat after the pattern of the ancient republics, 
without reference to the English constitution, re- 
specting which he knew" little and cared nothing, 
heeding it not at all. The second was an equally 
ardent love of toleration of all opinions ; of tolera- 
tion, complete, entire, universal, unlimited ; and, as 
a deduction and corollary from which latter prin- 
ciple, he felt an intense abhorrence of persecution 
of every kind, public or private. — T. J. Hogg (" Life 
of Shelley "). 

Although the mind of Shelley had certainly a 
strong bias towards democracy, and he embraced 
with an ardent and youthful fondness the theory of 
political equality, his feelings and behavior were in 
many respects highly aristocratical. ... As a 
politician, Shelley was in theory wholly a republi- 
can, but in practice, so far only as it is possible to 
be one with due regard for the sacred rights of a 
scholar and a gentleman ; and these being in his 
eyes always more inviolable than any scheme of 
polity, or civil institution, although he was upon 
paper and in discourse a sturdy commonwealth 
man, the living, moving, acting individual, had 
much of the senatorial and conservative, and was, 
in the main, eminently patrician. — T. J. Hogg 
("Life of Shelley"). 
I.-Q 



Liberty and 
toleration. 



Political 
vieivs. 



I30 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 



A search 

for evi- 
dence. 



Invextigat- 
in-^ p re- 
existence. 



One Sunday we had been reading Plato together 
so diligently that the usual hour of exercise passed 
away unperceived ; we sallied forth hastily to take 
the air for half an hour before dinner. In the mid- 
dle of Magdalen Bridge we met a woman with a 
child in her arms. Shelley was more attentive at 
that instant to our conduct in a life that was past, 
or to come, than to a decorous regulation of the 
present, according to the established usages of so- 
ciety, in that fleeting moment of eternal duration, 
styled the nineteenth century. With abrupt dex- 
terity he caught hold of the child. The mother, 
who might well fear that it was about to be thrown 
over the parapet of the bridge into the sedgy waters 
below, held it fast by its long train. 

*' Will your baby tell us anything about pre-exist- 
ence, Madam ? " he asked in a piercing voice, and 
with a wistful look. 

The mother made no answer, but perceiving that 
Shelley's object was not murderous, but altogether 
harmless, she dismissed her apprehension, and re- 
laxed her hold. 

*' Will your baby tell us anything about pre-exist- 
ence,Madam!" he repeated wnth unabated earnestness. 

" He cannot speak. Sir," said the mother seriously. 

*' Worse and worse," cried Shelley, with an air of 
deep disappointment, shaking his long hair most 
pathetically about his young face ; "but surely the 
babe can speak if he will, for he is only a few weeks 
old. He may fancy perhaps that he cannot, but it 
is only a silly whim ; he cannot have forgotten en- 
tirely the use of speech in so short a time ; the thing 
is absolutely impossible." 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 



131 



" It is not for me to dispute with you, gentlemen," 
the woman meekly replied, her eye glancing at our 
academical garb ; ''but I can safely declare that I nev- 
er heard him speak, nor any child, indeed, of his age." 

It was a fine, placid boy ; so far from being dis- 
turbed by the interruption, he looked up and 
smiled. Shelley pressed his fat cheeks with his fin- 
gers, we commended his healthy appearance and his 
equanimity, and the mother was permitted to pro- 
ceed, probably to her satisfaction, for she would 
doubtless prefer a less speculative nurse. Shelley 
sighed deeply as we walked on. '' How provokingly 
close are those new-born babes ! " he ejaculated ; 
" but it is not the less certain, notwithstanding the 
cunning attempts to conceal the truth, that all 
knowledge is reminiscence ; the doctrine is far more 
ancient than the times of Plato, and as old as the ven- 
erable allegory that the Muses are the daughters of 
Memory ; not one of the nine was ever said to be the 
child of Invention!"— T. J. Hogg (''Life of Shelley"). 

Never was there a more unexceptionable dispu- 
tant ; he was eager beyond the most ardent, but 
never angry and never personal ; he was the only 
arguer I ever knew who drew every argument from 
the nature of the thing, and who could never be 
provoked to descend to personal contention. He 
was fully inspired, indeed, with the whole spirit of 
the true logician ; the more obvious and indisputa- 
ble the proposition which his opponent undertook 
to maintain, the more complete was the triumph of 
his art if he could refute and prevent him. — T. J. 
Hogg (" Life of Shelley "). 



Investigat- 
ing pre- 
existencc. 



A good dis* 
J>utant. 



132 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 



A passing 
fancy. 



A peculiar 

vie'v of 
Christian- 
ity. 



He had many schemes of life. Amongst them 
all, the most singular that ever crossed his mind 
was that of entering the church. Whether he had 
ever thought of it before, or whether it only arose 
on the moment, I cannot say : the latter is most 
probable ; but I well remember the occasion. We 
were walking in the early summer through a village 
where there was a good vicarage house, with a nice 
garden, and the front wall of the vicarage was cov- 
ered with corchorus in full flower, a plant less com- 
mon then than it has since become. He stood 
some time admiring the vicarage wall. The ex- 
treme quietness of the scene, the pleasant pathway 
through the village churchyard, and the brightness 
of the summer morning, apparently concurred to 
produce the impression under which he suddenly 
said to me, — *' I feel strongly inclined to enter the 
church." *'What," I said, *'to become a clergy- 
man with your ideas of the faith ? " "Assent to the 
supernatural part of it," he said, ** is merely techni- 
cal. Of the moral doctrines of Christianity I am a 
more decided disciple than many of its more osten- 
tatious professors. And consider for a moment how 
much good a good clergyman may do. In his 
teaching as a scholar and a moralist ; in his example 
as a gentleman and a man of regular life ; in the 
consolation of his personal intercourse and of his 
charity among the poor. . . . It is an admira- 
ble institution which admits the possibility of dif- 
fusing such men over the surface of the land. And 
am I to deprive myself of the advantages of this 
admirable institution because there are certain tech- 
nicalities to which I cannot give my adhesion, but 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 



133 



which I need not bring prominently forward ? " 
I told him I thought he would find more restraint 
in the office than would suit his aspirations. He 
walked on some time thoughtfully, then started an- 
other subject, and never returned to that of enter- 
ing the church. — T. L. Peacock (Fraser's Maga- 
zine, June, 1858). 

The Williamses received me in their earnest, cor- 
dial manner ; we had a great deal to communicate to 
each other, and were in loud and animated conver- 
sation, when I was rather put out by observing in 
the passage near the open door, opposite to where 
I sat, a pair of glittering eyes steadily fixed on mine ; 
it was too dark to make out whom they belonged 
to. With the acuteness of a woman, Mrs. Williams's 
eyes followed the direction of mine, and going to 
the doorway she laughingly said, 

" Come in, Shelley, it's only our friend Tre just 
arrived." 

Sv/iftly gliding in, blushing like a girl, a tall, thin 
stripling held out both his hands ; and although I 
could hardly believe as I looked at his flushed, femi- 
nine, and artless face that it could be the poet, I re- 
turned his warm pressure. After the ordinary 
greetings and courtesies he sat down and listened. 
I was silent with astonishment : was it possible this 
mild-looking beardless boy could be the veritable 
monster at w^ar with all the world ? — excommunicated 
by the Fathers of the Church, deprived of his civil 
rights by the fiat of a grim Lord Chancellor, dis- 
carded by every member of his family, and de- 
nounced by the rival sages of our literature as the 



A peculiar 

vie 70 0/ 

Christian- 

tty. 



Captain 
Trelniimy 
meets Shel 
ley at Pisa, 



134 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 



Captaiti 
Trelaivny 
fmets Shel- 
ley at Pisa. 



founder of a Satanic school ? I could not believe 
it ; it must be a hoax. He was habited like a boy, 
in a black jacket and trousers, which he seemed to 
have outgrown, or his tailor, as is the custom, had 
most shamefully stinted him in his "sizings." Mrs. 
Williams saw my embarrassment, and to relieve me 
asked Shelley what book he had in his hand ? His 
face brightened, and he answered briskly, " Calder- 
on's 'Magico Prodigioso,' I am translating some 
passages in it." 

"Oh, read it to us !" 

Shoved off from the shore of commonplace inci- 
dents that could not interest him, and fairly launched 
on a theme that did, he instantly became oblivious 
of everything but the book in his hand. The mas- 
terly manner in which he analyzed the genius of the 
author, his lucid interpretation of the story, and the 
ease with which he translated into our language the 
4M^t subtle and imaginative passages of the Span- 
ish poet, were marvellous, as was his command of 
the two languages. After this touch of his quality 
I no longer doubted his identity ; a dead silence en- 
sued ; looking up, I asked, 

''Where is he?" 

Mrs. Williams said, "Who? Shelley? Oh, he 
comes and goes like a spirit, no one knows when or 
where." — E. J. Trelawny (" Records of Shelley, 
Byron," etc.). 

Here he wrote the Revolt of Isla??i^ and A Proposal 
for Putting Reform to the Vote through the Country. 
. . . He used to sit in a study adorned with casts 
as large as life of the Vatican Apollo and the celes- 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 



135 



tial Venus. Between whiles he would ^valk in the 
garden, or take strolls about the country, or a sail 
in a boat. . . . Flowers, or the sight of a happy 
face, or the hearing of a congenial remark would 
make his eyes sparkle with delight. At other times 
he would suddenly droop into an aspect of dejec- 
tion, particularly when a wretched face passed by 
him. . . . He rose early in the morning, walked 
and read before breakfast, took that meal sparingly, 
wrote and studied the greater part of the morning, 
walked and read again, dined on vegetables (for he 
took neither meat nor wine), conversed with his 
friends (to whom his house was ever open), again 
walked out, and usually finished with reading to his 
wife till ten o'clock, when he went to bed. This 
was his daily existence. His book ^vas generally 
Plato, or Homer, or one of the Greek tragedians, or 
the Bible, in which last he took a great, though pe- 
culiar, and often admiring interest. One of his fav- 
orite parts was the book of Job. — Leigh Hunt 
(" Autobiography "). 

On returning to Pisa I found the two poets going 
through the same routine of habits they had 
adopted before my departure ; the one getting out 
of bed afternoon, dawdling about until two or three, 
following the same road on horseback, stopping at 
the same Podere, firing his pop-guns, and retracing 
his steps at the same slow pace ; — his frugal dinner 
followed by his accustomed visit to an Italian 
family, and then — the midnight lamp, and the 
immortal verses. The other was up at six or 
seven, reading Plato, Sophocles, or Spinoza, \nXh 



Life at 

Great Mar^ 

lo7t\ in 

1817. 



Shelley attd 

Byron at 

Pisa. 



136 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 



'Shelley and 

By roil at 

Pisa. 



The tribute 

of a content' 

porary. 



the accompaniment of a hunch of dry bread ; then he 
joined Williams in a sail on the Arno, in a flat-bot- 
tomed skiff, book in hand, and from thence he went 
to the pine forest, or some out-of-the-way pl?ice. 
When the birds went to roost he returned home, 
and talked and read until midnight. The monotony 
of this life was only broken at long intervals by the 
arrival of some old acquaintances of Byron's. — E. 
J. Trelawny (" Records of Shelley, Byron," etc.). 

Innocent and careless as a boy, he possessed all 
the delicate feelings of a gentleman, all the discrim- 
ination of a scholar, and united, in just degrees, the 
ardor of the poet with the patience and forbearance 
of the philosopher. His generosity and charity went 
far beyond those of any man (I believe) at present in 
existence. He was never known to speak evil of an 
enemy, unless that enemy had done some grievous 
injustice to another ; and he divided his income of 
only one thousand pounds with the fallen and the 
afflicted. This is the man against whom such clamors 
have been raised by the religious and the loyal, and 
by those who live and lap under their tables. — Wal- 
ter Savage Landor (" Imaginary Conversations").^ 

On our way to Covent-Garden, I expressed my 
surprise and dissatisfaction at our strange visit,^ 
and I learned that when he came to London before, 
in the course of the summer, some old man had re- 



^ Landor (Walter Savage). Works. 2 vols. 8vo. London, 1846. 
{The passage quoted above does not appear in the later edition, 8 
vols., 8vo. London, 1876.) 

- Shelley had taken his friend to a pawn-broker's shop. 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 



137 



lated to him a tale of distress,^of a calamity which 
could only be alleviated by the timely application 
of ten pounds ; five of them he drew at once from 
his pocket, and to raise the other five he had pawned 
his beautiful solar microscope ! He related this act 
of beneficence simply and briefly, as if it were a 
matter of course, and such it was indeed to him. — 
T. J. Hogg ("Life of Shelley"). 

As an instance of Shelley's extraordinary gener- 
osity, a friend of his, a man of letters, enjoyed from 
him ... a pension of a hundred a year, though 
he had but a thousand of his own, and he continued 
to enjoy it till fortune rendered it superfluous. 
But the princeliness of his disposition was seen 
most in his behavior to another friend, the writer of 
this memoir, who is proud to relate, that with 
money raised by an effort, Shelley once made him 
a present of fourteen hundred pounds, to extricate 
him from debt. I was not extricated, for I had not 
yet learned to be careful : but the shame of not 
being so, after such generosity, and the pain w^hich 
my friend afterward underwent when I was in 
trouble and he was helpless, were the first causes of 
my thinking of money-matters to any purpose. His 
last sixpence was ever at my service, had I chosen 
to share it. — Leigh Hunt ("Autobiography"). 

Music affected him deeply. He had also a deli- 
cate perception of the beauties of sculpture. It is 
not one of the least evidences of his conscientious 
turn of mind, that, with the inclination and the 
power to surround himself in Italy with all the 



Panvns his 
vticroscope. 



Generosity. 



138 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 



Generous 
self-denial. 



Instances of 
his generos- 
ity. 



graces of life, he made no sort of attempt that way ; 
finding other uses for his money, and not always 
satisfied with himself for indulging even in the lux- 
ury of a boat. When he bought elegancies of any 
kind, it was to give away. Boating was his great 
amusement. He loved the mixture of action and 
repose which he found in it ; and delighted to fancy 
himself gliding away to Utopian isles, and bowsers 
of enchantment. But he would give up any pleas- 
ure to do a deed of kindness. Indeed, he may be 
said to have made the whole comfort of his life a 
sacrifice to what he thought the wants of society. — 
Leigh Hunt ("Autobiography"). 

The following summary of instances of Shelley's 
generosity is taken from J. A. Symonds's recent vol- 
ume upon Shelley, in the "English Men of Letters" 
series : ^ — " Peacock received from him an annual 
allowance of loo/. He gave Leigh Hunt, on one 
occasion, 1400/. ; and he discharged debts of God- 
win, amounting, it is said, to about 6000/. In his 
pamphlet on Putting Refor7n to the Vote., he offered 
to subscribe 100/. for the purpose of founding an 
association ; and ... he headed the Tremadoc 
subscription with a sum of 500/. These instances 
of his generosity might be easily multiplied ; and 
when we remember that his present income was 
1000/., out of which 200/. went to the support of 
his children, it will be understood not only that he 
could not live luxuriously, but also that he was in 



' Symonds (John Addington). Shelley. i2mo. London and 
New York, 1879. (English Men of Letters. Ed. by J. Morley.) 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 



r39 



frequent money difficulties through the necessity of 
raising funds upon his expectations. His self-denial 
in all minor matters of expenditure was conspicu- 
ous." 

Shelley married the daughter of Mr. Godwin, and 
resided at Great Marlow in Buckinghamshire, where 
my family and myself paid him a visit, and where 
he was a blessing to the poor. His charity, though 
liberal, was not weak. He inquired personally into 
the circumstances of his petitioners ; visited the 
sick in their beds (for he had gone the rounds of 
the hospitals on purpose to be able to practise on 
occasion), and kept a regular list of industrious 
poor, whom he assisted with small sums to make up 
their accounts. — Leigh Hunt ("Autobiography"). 

Shelley tended me like a brother. He applied 
my leeches, administered my medicines, and during 
six weeks that I was confined to my room, was as- 
siduous and unintermitting in his affectionate care 
of me. — Thomas Medwin (" Life of Shelley "). 

I was returning home one night to Hampstead 
after the opera. As I approached the door, I heard 
strange and alarming shrieks, mixed with the voice 
of a man. The next day it was reported by the gos- 
sips that Mr. Shelley, no Christian (for it was he 
who was there) had brought some ''very strange fe- 
male " into the house, no better of course, than she 
ought to be. The real Christian had puzzled them. 
Shelley, in coming to our house that night, had 
found a woman lying near the top of the hill in fits. 



Instances oj 

his gjneros- 

ity. 



Practical 
charity. 



The f>oor 

ivoniati at 

Hampstead. 



I40 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 



The poor 
ivoman at 
Hcunpstead 



One, yet 
many. 



It was a fierce winter night, with snow upon the 
ground ; and Avinter loses nothing of its fierceness at 
Hampstead. My friend, always the promptest as 
well as most pitying on these occasions, knocked at 
the first houses he could reach, in order to have the 
woman taken in. The invariable answer, was, that 
they could not do it. He asked for an outhouse to 
put her in, while he went for a doctor. Impossible ! 
In vain he assured them that she was no impostor. 
. . . The woman was then brought to our house, 
which was at some distance, and down a bleak path. 
. . . The doctor said that she would have perished 
had she lain a short time longer. — Leigh Hunt 
(''Autobiography "). 

We must learn to think of Shelley not merely as 
gentle, dreamy, unworldly, imprudently disinter- 
ested, and ideally optimistic — though he was all 
this — but likewise as swift, prompt, resolute, iras- 
cible, strong-limbed and hardy, often very practical 
in his views of politics, and endowed with preter- 
natural keenness of observation. There is but one 
formula for combining and harmonizing these ap- 
parent discrepancies : he was an elemental force 
whose essence is simplicity itself, but whose modes 
of operation are many and various. If we study 
the divers ways in which those who shared his so- 
ciety have striven to express that which they have 
felt to be inexpressible, we shall find that in the last 
analysis all amount to this. — Richard Garnett 
(Fortnightly Review, June, 1878). 

Note, — Some particulars of Shelley's intercourse with Southey 
will be found on pp. 240-244. 



THOMAS MOORE. 

1779-1852. 



INTRODUCTORY NOTE. 



MEN agree about Moore almost as thoroughly 
as they differ about Byron and Shelley. Here 
at least there was no mystery. Brilliant, jovial, 
kindly ; frivolous, yet hysterically sensitive ; in 
principle a Whig, in practice a worshipper of aris- 
tocracy ; a Roman Catholic, but not a bigot ; free — 
loose even-— in speech and with pen, yet clean in the 
conduct of his life ; a fond husband, yet always quite 
prepared to sacrifice his wife's enjoyment to his 
own — all this, and more, was readily discerned by 
those who watched this airy little fellow " who wore 
his heart upon his sleeve." 

He fluttered gayly through life, winning the ad- 
miration and applause which he craved, and bearing 
hardship with a good grace. In common with 
most sentimentalists, he was very selfish ; but his 
nature was so superficial, and his egotism was so 
fully developed, that it may well be doubted if he 
ever suspected that selfishness might be one of his 
failings. His amiability, and his many engaging, 
and even fascinating qualities, secured him a host 
of friends ; and he can but seldom have inspired any 
feeling harsher than a good-humored contempt for 
the weaknesses which were obvious to all. 



144 THOMAS MOORE. 

The chief authority upon Moore's life is his own 
journal, edited by Lord John Russell. This is one 
of the most exhausting books in our language ; 
eight tedious volumes, overflowing with egotism 
and triviality. Information about him is to be 
found in many books written by his contemporaries, 
among which may be noted, S. C. Hall's " Book of 
Memories ; " N. P. Willis's " PencilUngs by the Way ;" 
Julian Charles Young's "Memoir of C. M. Young;" 
the Countess of Blessington's "Conversations of 
Lord Byron ; " and Leigh Hunt's " Lord Byron and 
some of his Contemporaries." 

LEADING EVENTS OF MOORE'S LIFE. 

1779. Born, May 28th, in Dublin. 

1794. — (Aged 15.) Enters Dublin University. 

1799. — (Aged 20.) A law student in the Middle Temple, London. 

1800. — (Aged 21.) Publishes a translation of the " Odes of Anac- 
reon." 

1801. — (Aged 22.) Publishes "Poems by Thomas Little." 

1803. — (Aged 24.) Goes to Bermuda, upon a government appoint- 
ment. 

1804. — (Aged 25.) Travels in the United States. Returns to 
England. 

1806. — (Aged 27.) Begins the composition of his "Irish Melo- 
dies." 

1 81 1. — (Aged 32.) Marries Miss Elizabeth Dyke. 

1817.— (Aged 38.) Publishes "Lalla Rookh." Takes Sloperton 
Cottage. 

1819. — (Aged 40. ) Travels on the Continentwith Lordjohn Russell. 

1825. — (Aged 46.) Publishes the "Life of Sheridan." 

1830. — (Aged 51.) Publishes the " Life of Byron." 

1835. — (Aged 56.) Receives a pension of three hundred pounds 
per annum. 

1852. — (Aged 72 years, 9 months.) Dies, February 25th. 



THOMAS MOORE. 145 

Note. — Lord John Russell edited Moore's "Diary," and stated 
therein that Moore was born in 1779. The same date was 
engraved upon the poet's tombstone. If these were errors, it is 
probable that they would have been corrected at the time by Mrs. 
Moore, or by others who were able to speak with authority. No 
such correction was made, although there was one error of Lord 
Russell's which Mrs. Moore took pains to set right : Lord R 
gave February 26th, as the day of Moore's death, but Mrs. ]\Ioore 
stated that he died upon February 25th. It would seem, then, as 
if the date of Moore's birth was pretty definitely settled. Never- 
theless, there are several writers, who assert that Moore was bom 
in 1780. This assertion is based upon a baptismal register, which 
gives 1780 as the date of Moore's baptism. This, however, is not 
conclusive evidence, and does not touch the point at issue j for 
who can tell us what length of time elapsed between the birth and 
the record of baptism ? In the absence of definite proof that bap- 
tism immediately followed birth, this record cannot be legitimately 
used to establish a date subsequent to the one generally received 
as correct. The weight of evidence is in favor of 1779. The safe 
rule in regard to baptismal registers is, that they may be trusted to 
establish priority, but not subsequence of date. 
L — 10 



THOMAS MOORE. 



HE was a sort of " show-child " from his birth, and 
could hardly walk when it was jestingly said 
of him that he passed all his nights with fairies on 
the hills. '* He lisped in numbers for the numbers 
came." Almost his earliest memory was his having 
been crowned king of a castle by some of his play- 
fellows. At his first school he was the show-boy of 
the schoolmaster ; at thirteen years old he had 
written poetry that attracted and justified admira- 
tion. In 1798, at the age of nineteen he had made 
" considerable progress " in translating the Odes of 
Anacreon. — S. C. Hall (" Book of Memories").^ 

I recall him at this moment, — his small form and 
intellectual face, rich in expression, and that expres- 
sion the sweetest, the most gentle, and the kindliest. 
He had still in age the same bright and clear eye, 
the same gracious smile, the same suave and win- 
ning manner, I had noticed as the attributes of his 
comparative youth : a forehead not remarkably 
broad or high, but singularly impressive, firm, and 



' Hall (Samuel C). A Book of Memories of Great Men and 
Women of the Age. 4to. London, 1876. 



Precocity. 



Personal 
appearance. 



148 



THOMAS MOORE. 



Personal 
aJ>J>earance. 



full. . . . The nose . . . was somewhat 
upturned. Standing or sitting, his head was invari- 
ably upraised, owing, perhaps, mainly to his short- 
ness of stature. . . . His hair was, at the time 
I speak of (in his sixty-fifth year), thin and very 
grey, and he wore his hat with the "jaunty" air 
that has been often remarked as a peculiarity of the 
Irish. In dress, although far from slovenly, he was 
by no means particular. — S. C. Hall (''Book 
of Memories "). 

His forehead is bony and full of character, with 
"bumps " of wit, large and radiant enough to trans- 
port a phrenologist. His eyes are as dark and fine, 
as you would wish to see under a set of vine-leaves ; 
his mouth generous and good-humored, with dimples ; 
his nose sensual, prominent, and at the same time 
the reverse of aquiline. There is a very peculiar 
character in it, as if it were looking forward, and 
scenting a feast or an orchard. The face, upon the 
whole, is Irish, not unruffled with care and passion, 
but festivity is the prominent expression. — Leigh 
Hunt (" Lord Byron and his Contemporaries "). 

To see him only at table, you would think him 
not a small man His principal length is in his 
body, and his head and shoulders are those of a 
much larger person. Consequently he sits tall, and 
with the peculiar erectness of head and neck, his 
diminutiveness disappears. . . . Moore's head 
is distinctly before me as I write, but I shall find it 
difficult to describe. His hair, which curled once 
all over it in long tendrils, unlike anybody else's in 



THOMAS MOORE, 



149 



the world, and which probably suggested his sobri- 
quet of " Bacchus," is diminished now to a few curls 
sprinkled with grey, and scattered in a single ring 
above his ears. His forehead is wrinkled, with the 
exception of a most prominent development of the 
organ of gaiety, w^hich, singularly enough, shines 
with the lustre and smooth polish of a pearl, and is 
surrounded by a semicircle of lines drawn close 
about it, like entrenchments against Time. His eyes 
still sparkle like a champagne bubble, though the 
invader has drawn his pencillings about the corners ; 
and there is a kind of wintry red, of the tinge of an 
October leaf, that seems enamelled on his cheek, 
the eloquent record of the claret his wit has bright- 
ened. His mouth is the most characteristic feat- 
ure of all. The lips are delicately cut, slight and 
changeable as an aspen ; but there is a set-up look 
about the lower lip, a determination of the muscle 
to a particular expression, and you fancy that you 
can almost see wit astride upon it. It is written legi- 
bly with the imprint of habitual success. It is arch, 
confident, and half diffident, as if he were disguising 
his pleasure at applause, while another bright gleam 
of fancy was breaking on him. The slightly tossed 
nose confirms the fun of the expression, and alto- 
gether it is a face that sparkles, beams, radiates, — 
everything hvX feels. Fascinating beyond all men as 
he is, Moore looks like a worldling. — N. P. Willis 
(" Pencillings by the Way "^ 

Nothing but a short-hand report could retain the 

^ Willis (Nathaniel P.). Pencillings by the Way. i2mo. 
New York : Charles Scribner, 1853. 



Personal 
a^^earance. 



150 



THOMAS MOORE. 



Voice and 

con7>ersa- 

tion. 



delicacy and elegance of Moore's language, and 
memory itself cannot embody again the kind of 
frost-work of imagery, which was formed and melted 
on his lips. His voice is soft or firm as the subject 
requires, but perhaps the word geiitlemanly describes 
it better than any other. It is upon a natural key, 
but, if I may so phrase it, it is /z/^^^ with a high-bred 
affectation, expressing deference and courtesy, at 
the same time, that its pauses are constructed peculi- 
arly to catch the ear. It would be difficult not to 
attend to him, though the subject were but the 
shape of a wine-glass. — N. P. Willis (" Pencillings 
by the Way"). 

I must say, Moore's tone, in conversation, is per- 
fect. He appears to me to be as well bred as if he 
had been born in the circle in which he moves, and in 
which he is treated by the highest as their peer. 
He is not devoid of self-complacency — it would be 
odd if he were — but it is not an offensive self-com- 
placency : it is innocent and innocuous. He knows 
his gifts ; and if he did not, all the fine ladies of Lon- 
don have done their best to enlighten him on that 
point. — J. C. Young (*' Memoir of C. M. Young," 
etc.).' 

'* I never spent an hour with Moore," said Byron, 
" without being ready to apply to him the expres- 
sion attributed to Aristophanes, * You have spoken 



* Young (Julian Charles). A Memoir of Charles M. Young, 
Tragedian, with Extracts from his Son's Journal. i2mo. London 
and New York, 187 1. 



THOMAS MOORE. 



151 



roses;' his thoughts and expressions have all the 

beauty and freshness of those flowers, but the piq- ' 

uancy of his wit, and the readiness of his repar- Conversa- 

-' ' '^ twn and 

tees, prevent one's ear being cloyed by too much i sociaigi/ts. 

sweets, and one cannot ' die of a rose in aromatic 

pain ' with Moore ; though he does speak roses, 

there is such an endless variety in his conversation. 

Moore is the only poet I know," continued Byron, 

*' whose conversation equals his writings ; he comes 

into society with a mind as fresh and buoyant as if 

he had not expended such a multiplicity of thoughts 

on paper ; and leaves behind him an impression 

that he possesses an inexhaustible mine equally 

brilliant as the specimens he has given us. . . . 

Moore is a delightful companion, gay w^ithout 

being boisterous, witty without effort, comic v/ith- 

out coarseness, and sentimental without being 

lachr)^mose. . . . My tete a tete suppers with 

Moore are among the most agreeable impressions I 

retain of the hours passed in London. ... I 

have known a dull man live on a bon mot of Moore's 

for a week." — Lady Blessington ("Conversations 

of Lord Byron "). 



I was very much struck by his conversation. It 
was brilliant and sparkling in the highest degree, 
abounding in those Eastern images and poetical 
thoughts which appear with such lustre in his 
*'Lalla Rookh " and "Irish Melodies," mingled 
with quick repartee and rapid interchange of ideas 
acquired in the highest and most intellectual 
London society. It was easy to see that he was 
thoroughly a poet ; perhaps a little spoilt by the 



Cofiversa- 
tion. 



152 



THOMAS MOORE. 



Conversa- 
tion. 



Singing his 
oivn songs. 



adulation he had met with from the most intoxicat- 
ing of all quarters, that of elegant young women of 
fashion. Delightful and sociable, when he continued, 
as he generally was, the idol of the circle, he was apt 
to be pettish if another shared its attention, and in 
an especial manner to be jealous of the admiration 
of young ladies. — Sir A. Alison (''Autobiography"). 

He makes no attempt at music. It is a kind of 
admirable recitative, in which every shade of thought 
is syllabled and dwelt upon, and the sentiment of 
the song goes through your blood, warming you to 
the very eyelids, and starting your tears, if you 
have a soul or sense in you. — N. P. Willis (" Pen- 
cillings by the Way "). 

His journals curiously indicate what I repeatedly 
witnessed in my own house and elsewhere, his mor- 
bid sensitiveness, when singing his Irish ballads, to 
the effect they produced on those around him. In 
the most touching passages his eye was wandering 
round the room, scrutinizing jealously the influence 
of his song. — Sir Henry Holland (" Recollec- 
tions "). 

He had but little voice, yet he sang with a depth 
of sweetness that charmed all hearers ; it was true 
melody, and told upon the heart as well as the ear. 
No doubt much of this charm was derived from 
association, for it was only his own melodies he 
sang.— S. C. Hall (''Retrospect").' 



^ Hall (Samuel Carter). Retrospect of a Long Life. 

Loudon and New York, 1883. 



8vo. 



THOMAS MOORE. 



153 



"Mr. Moore!" cried the footman at the bottom 
of the staircase, " Mr. Moore ! " cried the footman 
at the top. And with his glass at his eye, stumbling 
over an ottoman between his near-sightedness and 
the darkness of the room, enter the poet. Half a 
glance tells you that he is at home on a carpet. 
Sliding his little feet up to Lady Blessington, 
. . . . he made his compliments, with a gaiety 
and an ease combined with a kind of worshipping 
deference, that was worthy of a prime-minister at 
the court of love. With the gentlemen, all of whom 
he knew, he had the frank, merry manner of a con- 
fident favorite, and he was greeted like one. He 
went from one to the other, straining back his head 
to look up at them (for, singularly enough, every 
gentleman in the room was six feet high and up- 
ward), and to every one he said something which, 
from any one else, would have seemed peculiarly 
felicitous, but which fell from his lips, as if his 
breath was not more spontaneous. — N. P. Willis 
(" Pencillings by the Way "). 

No one can read his poems, or see his deportment 
in female society, without feeling that his admira- 
tion, not exclusively for beauty, but for the sex, is 
intense. I verily believe that, w^ere his doctor to 
prescribe for him a twelve-months' course of rigid 
abstinence from female society, the result would be 
as injurious to his health as it w^ould be for one ad- 
dicted to dram-drinking to be ordered suddenly to 
take the tee-total pledge. Although fondly attached 
to his wife, and with none of the lower propensities 
which detracted so much from the nobler qualities 



A dinner at 
Lady Bless- 
ington' s in 
1835. 



Gallantry. 



154 



THOMAS MOORE. 



Gallafitry, 



Crcrving 
for society. 



' ToMtJuy 
loves a 
lord." 



of Byron, it cannot be denied that, for many a year, 
he has lived in a state, more or less feverish, of 
chronic flirtation : 

" From beauty still to beauty ranging, 
In every face he found a dart." 

— J. C.Young ('' Memoir of Charles M. Young, etc."). 

I do not fancy that he is a self-sufficing man. I 
doubt his being content, like Cowper, to live alone, 
" in some vast wilderness, some boundless contigui- 
ty of shade." . . . Flis social instincts are too 
pronounced and too gregarious for seclusion to be 
otherwise than distasteful to him. . . . The 
drawing-room is the sphere in which he shines the 
brightest. What with his singing and his conversa- 
tional power, and his winning and deferential ad- 
dress, he is captivating (1836). — J. C. Young ("Me- 



moir of CM. 



Young 



•)• 



Byron said to Lady Blessington, as she records in 
her "Conversations of Lord Byron," "The great 
defect in my friend Tom is a sort of fidgety unset- 
tledness, that prevents his giving himself up, co/i 
a7?iore, to any one friend, because he is apt to think 
he might be more happy with another ; he has the 
organ of locomotiveness largely developed, as a 
phrenologist would say, and would like to be at 
three places at once." 

His estimates of persons seemed to depend much 
on their position or rank ; he did not trouble him- 
self to discuss persons w^ho had no rank at all. In 
his diary or letters, published in Lord John Russell's 
memoir, he speaks of being present at two dinners, 



THOMAS MOORE. 



155 



viz., at one where the company consisted of "some 
curious people " (I think that is the phrase), namely, 
Wordsworth, Lamb, Southey, etc.', and at the other, 
where he met a '' distinguished circle," consisting 
of Lord A., Lord B., Lord C, etc., all of whom are 
now duly forgotten. " Tommy loves a lord," as 
Lord Byron said of him. — B. W. Procter (''Auto- 
biographical Fragment ").^ 

A remark was made,^ in rather a satirical tone, 
upon Moore's worldliness and passion for rank. 
*' He was sure," it was said, '' to have four or five in- 
vitations to dine on the same day, and he tormented 
himself with the idea that he had not accepted per- 
haps the most exclusive. He would get off from an 
engagement with a Countess to dine with a Mar- 
chioness, and from a Marchioness to accept the later 
invitation of a Duchess ; and as he cared little for 
the society of men, and would sing and be delight- 
ful only for the applause of women, it mattered 
little whether one circle was more talented than an- 
other. Beauty was one of his passions, but rank 
and fashion were all the rest." This rather left- 
handed portrait was confessed by all to be just. 
Lady B. herself making no comment upon it. — 
N. P. Willis (" Pencillings by the Way "). 

There is a naivete 2i}QO\}X his vanity, which, though 
it may cause a smile, does not nettle the amour propre 



^ Procter (Bryan W.). Autobiographical Fragment, and Bio- 
graphical Notes, with Sketches of Contemporaries, etc. Ed. by 
Coventry Patraore. i2mo. London, 1877. 

2 At an assembly at Lady Blessington's house. 



" Tomi7zy 
loves a 
lord.^' 



Beauty, 

rank, and. 

fashio7i his 

chief joys. 



156 



THOMAS MOORE. 



of others to whom it is frankly exposed. I remem- 
ber an instance of it in point. One morning, at 
Vajtity. breakfast, at Bowood, he mentioned that, when 
Lockhart was engaged in writing his father-in-law's 
life, he received a letter from him, requesting him 
to be kind enough to write for him, for publication, 
his impression of Sir Walter Scott's ability as a poet 
and novelist, and his moral and social qualities as a 
man. He said he had had great pleasure in com- 
plying with Lockhart's wish ; and had paid an un- 
grudging tribute of respect to the great and good 
man's memory : though he owned to having been 
much mortified at being unable to find an excuse 
for introducing a word about himself. 

He mentioned that there was one circumstance 
connected with his visit to Scott of which he was 
longing to tell, but which, from a feeling that there 
ought to be no rival by the side of the principal fig- 
ure on his canvas, he reluctantly withdrew — viz., the 
unparalleled reception awarded to himself at the 
Edinburgh theatre, when accompanying Walter 
Scott there. '■'• Although," he said, *' I merely went 
under Scott's wing, and as his guest, and though 
Scott at the time was the national idol, the moment 
we appeared, I heard my name cried out. It spread 
like wildfire through the house. He was nowhere ; 
and I was cheered and applauded to the very echo. 
When the Life^ however, came out, I was rewarded 
for my self-denial by finding that Lockhart himself 
had done ample justice to the scene." ^ — J. C. Young 
(** Memoir of C. M. Young," etc.). 



• Moore took care to give a full account of this event in his Diary 
— v^hich was undoubtedly written for publication. 



THOMAS MOORE. 



157 



Moore, unquestionably, was of the sanguine tem- 
perament, and, without disparagement to his manli- 
ness, as hysterical as a woman. That he was quickly 
moved to smiles, any one who has witnessed his 
surpassing sense of the ludicrous will readily ac- 
knowledge * that he was as quickly moved to tears, 
the following incident will prove. 

(Mr. Young proceeds to relate, at too great length 
for quotation, that, at Bowood, the home of Lord 
Lansdowne, in 1838, a large party was assembled, 
Moore being one of the guests. Upon this occasion 
the young widow of the heir of the family, had been 
induced to make her first appearance in society, 
since the death of her husband. The story contin- 
ues as follows :) 

The piano was wheeled into the middle of the 
room. He took up his position on the music stool, 
and the Duchess of Sunderland planted herself on a 
chair by his side. . . . He happened to be in 
good voice and high feather. He was evidently 
flattered by the marked attention with which the 
Duchess listened to him ; held his head higher than 
ever in the air, and sang song after song with fault- 
less articulation and touching expression. All his 
airs were more or less pathetic. . . . During an 
interval, . . . the Duke of Sutherland crossed 
the room, and coming up to Moore, asked him to 
sing a song for him, of which he had the most 
agreeable recollection. . . . 

"There's a song of the olden time 
Falling sad o'er the ear, 
Like the notes of some village chime 
■ Which in youth we loved to hear." 



Morbid sen- 
sibility. 



Music and 
hysterics. 



158 



THOMAS MOORE. 



Music and 
hysterics. 



In old aoe. 



When he had proceeded with the strain thus far, 
he happened to turn his head from the Duchess, 
and glance at the widow. The instant he saw her 
lovely, sorrow-stricken face, with an abruptness 
that was fearful, he shrieked aloud, and fell flat on 
his face to the ground, in violent hysterics. Not a 
soul moved towards him, except Lord and Lady 
Lansdowne, who raised him with difficulty from the 
ground, supported him into the adjoining room, and 
closed the door. The most embarrassing silence 
reigned through the drawing-room — a silence only 
broken by the alternate sobs and laughter of 
the poet from the next room. — J. C. Young ("Me- 
moir of Charles M. Young " etc.). 

The last time I saw Moore was when I was stay- 
ing in Stratton Street with Miss B. Coutts. This 
was shortly before his last illness. He called and 
lunched, and Miss Coutts asked him to stay and 
dine. Charles Dickens was there that day ; and 
Moore, who had been buoyant and delightful 
before he came, became taciturn and sulky after. 
When he had gone, Moore, evidently contrasting 
the then reputation of Dickens with his own past 
celebrity, spoke to me with much chagrin of the 
fickleness of public opinion and the instability of 
literary reputation. He said, '* I dare say Dickens 
is pointed out as ' Boz ' wherever he goes. So was 
I once pointed out as ' Tom Little.' I can't say how 
sad I feel when I go to the opera now. I take up 
my lorgnette and see no one I know, or who knows 
me. Twenty years ago I flitted from box to box, 
like a butterfly from flower to flower. Go where I 



THOMAS MOORE. 



159 



would I was greeted with smiles. I could not pass 
through the lobby of a theatre without hearing 
people whisper as I passed, * That is Tom Moore.' 
Now^ no one knows me, and no one cares for me. 
Telle est la vie, Heigho ! " — J. C. Young ('* Memoir 
of Charles M. Young," etc.). 

DTsraeli regretted that he should have been met, 
exactly on his return to London, with the savage 
but clever article in Frasers Magazine, on his pla- 
giarisms. ''Give yourself no trouble about that," 
said Lady Blessington, "for you may be sure he 
will never see it. Moore guards against the sight 
and knowledge of criticism as people take precau- 
tions against the plague. He reads few periodicals, 
and but one newsDaper. If a letter comes to him 
from a suspicious quarter, he burns it unopened. 
If a friend mentions a criticism to him at the club, 
he never forgives him ; and, so v^^ell is this under- 
stood among his friends, that he might live in Lon- 
don a year, and all the magazines might dissect 
him, and he would probably never hear of it." — N. 
P. Willis (" Pencillings by the Way "). 

Breakfasted in bed for the purpose of hastening 
the remainder of my " Cribb " work. It is singular 
the difference that bed makes, not only in the facil- 
ity but the /<2;20' of what I write . . . ; if I did 
not find that it relaxed me exceedingly, I should 
pass half my day in bed for the purpose of compo- 
sition. — Thomas Moore ("Journal," etc.). 

Mr. S. C. Hall, in his "Book of Memories," de- 
scribes Moore's cottage at Sloperton. He tells us 



In old age. 



Dislike for 
criticis;u. 



T1V0 meth- 
ods of work. 



i6o 



THOMAS MOORE. 



Tivo meth- 
ods of work. 



Duel with 
Jeffrey. 



that there was a garden and lawn in front, and a 
kitchen garden behind, and that along this kitchen 
garden there was a raised bank, which the poet called 



his ''terrace-walk. 



Here," Mr. Hall continues. 



" a small deal table stood through all weathers ; for 
it was his custom to compose as he walked, and, at 
this table, to pause and write down his thoughts. 
He was alwa3^s in motion when he composed. If 
the v/eather prevented his walking on the terrace, 
he would pace up and down his small study ; the 
length of his walk was indicated by the state of the 
carpet ; the places where his steps turned were, at 
both ends, worn into holes." 

(In 1806 there appeared in the Edhtburgh Review 
a criticism upon a recently published work of 
Moore's. This criticism so deeply incensed Moore, 
that he challenged the author, Jeffrey, to mortal 
combat. The account of this meeting is so charac- 
teristic of both the men, that I insert it, notwith- 
standing its length. After describing the prelimi- 
naries of the duel ; the insulting letter which he 
wrote to Jeffrey, couched in such terms as to pre- 
clude all explanation or retraction ; his own utter 
ignorance of the use of fire-arms ; the choice of 
seconds, Horner acting for Jeffrey, Hume for him- 
self, Moore proceeds as follows : — ) 

The chaise being in readiness, we set off for 
Chalk Farm. . . . On reaching the ground we 
found Jeffrey and his party already arrived. . . . 
And then it was that, for the first time, my excel- 
lent friend Jeffrey and I met face to face. He was 
standing with the bag, which contained the pistols. 



THOMAS MOORE. 



l6l 



in his hand, while Horner was looking anxiously 
around. 

It was agreed that the spot where we found them, 
which was screened on one side by large trees, 
would be as good for our purpose as any we could 
select ; and Horner, after expressing some anxiety 
respecting some men whom he had seen suspiciously 
hovering about, but who now appeared to have de- 
parted, retired with Hume behind the trees, for the 
purpose of loading the pistols, leaving Jeffrey and 
myself together. 

All this had occupied but a very few minutes. We, 
of course, had bowed to each other on meeting ; 
but the first words I recollect to have passed be- 
tween us was Jeffrey's saying, on our being left 
together, " What a beautiful morning it is ! " "Yes," 
I answered with a slight smile, "a morning made 
for better purposes ; " to which his only response 
was a sort of assenting sigh. As our assistants 
were not, any more than ourselves, very expert at 
warlike matters, they were rather slow in their 
proceedings ; and as Jeffrey and I walked up and 
down together, v/e came once in sight of their 
operations : upon which I related to him, as rather 
apropos to the purpose, what Billy Egan, the Irish 
barrister, once said, when, as he was sauntering 
about in like manner while the pistols were loading, 
his antagonist, a fiery little fellow, called out to him 
angrily to keep his ground. " Don't make yourself 
unaisy, my dear fellow," said Egan ; ''sure isn't it 
bad enough to take the dose, without being at the 
mixing up ? " 

Jeffrey had scarcely time to smile at this story, 
I. — II 



Duel with 
Jeffrey. 



1 62 



THOMAS MOORE. 



Duel with 
Jeffrey. 



when our two friends, issuing from behind the trees, 
placed us at our respective posts (the distance, I 
suppose, having been previously measured by them), 
and put the pistols into our hands. They then re- 
tired to a little distance ; the pistols were on both 
sides raised ; and we waited but the signal to fire, 
when some police officers, whose approach none of 
us had noticed, and who were within a second of 
being too late, rushed out from a hedge behind 
Jeffrey ; and one of them, striking at Jeffrey's pistol 
with his staff, knocked it to some distance into the 
field, while another running over to me, took pos- 
session also of mine. We were then replaced in 
our respective carriages, and conveyed, crestfallen, 
to Bow Street. 

On our way thither Hume told me, that from 
Horner not knowing anything about the loading of 
pistols he had been obliged to help him in the 
operation, and in fact to take upon himself chiefly 
the task of loading both pistols. When we arrived 
at Bow Street, the first step of both parties was to 
despatch messengers to procure some friends to 
bail us. . . . In the meanwhile we were all 
shown into a sitting-room, the people in attendance 
having first inquired whether it was our wish to be 
separated, but neither party having expressed any 
desire to that effect, we were all put together in the 
same room. Here conversation upon some literary 
subject, I forget what, soon ensued, in which I my- 
self took only the brief and occasional share, beyond 
which, at that time of my life, I seldom ventured in 
general society. But whatever was the topic, Jef- 
frey, I recollect, expatiated upon it with all his pe- 



THOMAS MOORE. 



163 



culiar fluency and eloquence ; and I can now most 
vividly recall him to my memory, as he lay upon 
his back on a form which stood beside the wall, 
pouring volubly forth his fluent but most oddly 
pronounced diction, and dressing this subject out 
in every variety of array that an ever rich and 
ready wardrobe of phraseology could supply. I 
have been told of his saying, soon after our ren- 
contre, that he had taken a fancy to me from the 
first moment of our meeting together in the field ; 
and I can truly say that my liking for him is of the 
same date.' — Thomas Moore ("Journal," etc.). 

Reference to his journal will show that, of all his 
contemporaries — whenever he spoke of them — he 
had something kindly to say. There is no evidence 
of ill-nature in any case — not a shadow of envy or 
jealousy. — S. C. Hall (*'A Book of Memories"). 

I do not think he would willingly calumniate or 
even disparage ; if he could not speak well of a 
man, he would abstain from speaking ill of him. — 
J. C. Young (" Memoir of C. M. Young "). 

To his mother — ... a humbly-descended, 
homely, and almost uneducated woman — Moore 
gave intense respect and devoted affection, from the 
time that reason dawned upon him to the hour of 
her death. To her he wrote his first letter (in 1793), 
. . . and in the zenith of his fame, when society 
drew largely on his time, and the highest and best 

' The result was that the duelists were bound over to keep the 
peace, and soon after met at Rogers's house, settled their difficulty 
amicably, and became intimate friends. 



Duel Tvit/t 
Jeffrey. 



Kindly 

judgments 

of men. 



Devotion to 
his mother. 



1 64 



THOMAS MOORE. 



Devotion to 
his mother. 



Leigh 
Hu?tfs 
cpinio7i. 



Cheerful- 
ness and 
honesty. 



in the land coveted a portion of his leisure, with her 
he corresponded so regularly that at her death she 
possessed (so Mrs. Moore told me) four thousand of 
his letters. Never, according to the statement of 
Earl Russell, did he pass a week without writing to 
her twice^ except while absent in Bermuda, when 
franks were not to be obtained, and postages were 
costly. — S. C. Hall ("Book of Memories "). 

Mr. Moore was lively, polite, bustling, full of amen- 
ities and acquiescences, into which he contrived to 
throw a sort of roughening of cordiality, like the 
crust of old port. It seemed a happiness to him to 
say '* Yes." There was just enough of the Irishman 
in him to flavor his speech and manner. He was a 
little particular, perhaps, in his ortheopy, but not 
more so than became a poet : and he appeared to 
me the last man in the world to cut his country 
even for the sake of high life. — Leigh Hunt (" Lord 
Byron and his Contemporaries "). 

Moore is still more delightful in society than he 
is in his writings; the sweetest-blooded, warmest- 
hearted, happiest, hopefulest creature that ever set 
fortune at defiance. He was quite ruined about 
three years ago by the treachery of a deputy in a 
small office he held, and was forced to reside in 
France. He came over since I came to England, to 
settle his debts by the sacrifice of every farthing he 
had in the world, and had scarcely got to London 
when he found that the whole scheme of settlement 
had blown up, and that he must return in ten days 
to his exile. And yet I saw nobody so sociable, 
kind and happy ; so resigned, or rather so trium- 



THOMAS MOORE. 



165 



phant over fortune, by the 'buoyancy of his spirits 
and the inward light of his mind. — Francis Jeffrey 
(From a letter written in 1822). 

There have been many who would suffer the ex- 
treme of penury rather than borrow — such . . . 
was Thomas Moore, to whom the purses of wealthy 
and high-born friends were as sacred as the Crown- 
jewels. — S. C. Hall (''Book of Memories"). 

I knew him well, and, rating him as a poet much 
lower than you do, delighted in him as a companion 
and wit — the most perfectly graceful, genial, and 
kindly of all wits. As a family man, he was, I be- 
lieve, more than usually amiable. My acquaintance 
with him was in town, but a dear friend of mine was 
his' near neighbor and Mrs. Moore's intimate friend 
at Sloperton, and she says that she never knew a 
more exemplary husband and father. — Mary Rus- 
sell MiTFORD (" Friendships of M. R. Mitford ").' 

In a recently published volume upon Moore, by 
A. J. Symington,^ I jSnd the following estimate of 
Moore, written by William Howitt, who knew him : — 

*' It is as useless to wish Moore anything but what 
he was, as to wish a butterfly a bee, or that a moth 
should not fly into a candle. It was his nature ; 
and the pleasure of being caressed, flattered, and 
admired by titled people must be purchased at any 

1 L' Estrange (Rev. A. G.). The Friendships of Mary Russell 
Mitford, as recorded in Letters from her Literary Correspondents. 
i2nio. New York, 1882. 

^ Symington (Andrew James). Thomas Moore, his Life and 
Works. 



Cheerful- 
ness and 
Jwnesty, 



A womatCs 
opinion : a 
good hus- 
band and 
father. 



General 
view of his 
character. 



1 66 



THOMAS MOORE. 



General 
r;iew of his 
character. 



cost. Neither poverty nor sorrow could restrain 
him from this dear enjoyment. We find him one 
moment overwhelmed by some death or distress 
amongst his nearest relatives or in the very bosom 
of his family. Nev/s arrives that a son is ill in a 
far-off land, or a daughter is dead at home. In the 
very next entry in his diary he has rushed away 
with his grief into some fashionable concert, where 
he sings and breaks down in tears. . . . He 
goes into the charmed, glittering ring to forget his 
trouble, and leaves poor, desolate Mrs. Moore soli- 
tarily at home to remember it. 

*'At another time you find him invited to dine 
with some great people, but he has not a penny in 
his pocket ; Bessy, however, has scraped together 
a pound or two out of the housekeeping cash, and 
lets him have it, and he is off. 

*' And yet this strange little fairy was a most af- 
fectionate husband, son, and brother. We find him 
and his wife staying at Lord Moira's for a week be- 
yond the time that they should have left, because 
they had not money enough to give to the servants. 
Thus, night after night, season after season, he is 
the flattered and laughing centre of the most brill- 
iant circles of lords and ladies, while he and his 
wife, in the daytime, are at their wits* end to find 
the means of meeting the demands of their humble 
menage. He is joking and carrolling like a lark, 
while his thoughts are, at every pause, running on 
how that confounded bill is to be taken up. All the 
time, his wife is sitting solitarily at home pondering 
on the same thing, and cannot call on her friends 
because it would necessitate the hire of a coach." 



SAMUEL ROGERS. 

1763-1855. 



INTRODUCTORY NOTE. 



ROGERS used to tell, in his old age, how on a 
certain day long ago, when he was an unknown 
youth, he w^ent to a house in London and knocked for 
admittance. Presently he heard a shuffling sound, 
as of an old man moving about within. He did not 
wait until the door was opened, but fled precipi- 
tately, dismayed by the approach of the man w^hom 
he longed to see. We can fancy the opening of that 
door, we can almost see the unwieldy frame and dis- 
ordered garb of him who stood for a moment upon 
the threshold, rolling his great head and peering 
forth into the vacancy of Bolt Court — for it was 
Samuel Johnson to whom young Rogers went to 
pay his respects. Rogers remembered the oratory 
of Burke, the acting of Garrick. He was thirteen 
years old at the time of the American revolution ; and 
yet some of us can recall how we laughed, only a 
few years ago, when his peculiarities of voice and 
manner were mimxicked by Charles Dickens, in his 
reading of "Justice Stareleigh," the judge of the 
" Pickwick " trial. 

In his youth Rogers wished to become a dissent- 
ing minister, but his father prevented him from do- 



I/O SAMUEL ROGERS. 

ing so by taking him into his bank. He remained 
constant throughout his life to the principles in 
which he was born and bred, adhering in religion to 
the dissenters, and in politics to the whigs. His 
frequent visits to the continent, and the publication 
of his various works, were the only incidents which 
disturbed the even course of his life. His long 
bachelorhood was uneventful, but it derives consid- 
erable interest from the curious variety of aspects in 
which he appeared. He was a successful banker ; 
an intelligent and generous patron of literature and 
art ; a laborious scholar and author ; and a leader 
in literary society, where he was by turns courted 
for his wit, and dreaded for the cruelty with which 
he exercised it. His character shows a singular 
combination of benevolence and malignity. 

The nearest approach that has been made to a life 
of Rogers is a sketch by his nephew, Samuel Sharpe, 
which was privately printed in London, in 1859, 
and has since been published in several editions of 
Rogers's poetical works. Alexander Dyce published 
a volume of his table-talk. In addition to these 
works the following volumes may be mentioned : 
William Jerdan's, ''Men I have Known," and the 
" Autobiography " of the same writer ; P. G. Pat- 
more's *' My Friends and Acquaintances ; " S. C. 
Hall's "Book of Memories ;" James T. Fields's "Old 
Acquaintance;" C. R. Leslie's ''Autobiography;" 
Abraham Hayward's "Essays;" H. F. Chorley's 
"Autobiography ; " Harriet Martineau's " Biograph- 
ical Sketches ;" Henry Crabb Robinson's " Diary ;" 
and Thomas Moore's "Journal." 



SAMUEL ROGERS. 1 71 



LEADING EVENTS OF ROGERS'S LIFE. 

1763. Born, July 30th, at Stoke Newington, a suburb 

of London. 
1781. — (Aged 18.) Contributes to the Gentleman'' s Magazine. 
1786. — (Aged 23.) Publishes "An Ode to Superstition." 
1792. — (Aged 29.) Publishes " The Pleasures of Memory." 
1812. — (Aged 49.) Publishes *' Columbus." 
1814. — (Aged 51.) Publishes "Jacqueline." 
1819. — (Aged 56.) Publishes "Human Life." 
1822. — (Aged 59.) Publishes the first part of "Italy." 
1828.— (Aged 65.) Publishes the second part of "Italy." 
1855. — (Aged 92 years, 4 months.) Dies, December i8th. 

Note. — Rogers was privately educated, and entered his father's 
banking-house. Precise dates of events in his life, from his first 
to his eighteenth year, are not obtainable. 



SAMUEL ROGERS, 



HIS personal appearance was extraordinary, or 
rather, his countenance was unique. His skull 
and facial expression bore so striking a likeness to 
the skeleton pictures which we sometimes see of 
Death, that the facetious Sydney Smith (at one of 
the dressed evening parties . . . ) entitled him 
the ^' Death-dandy ! " And it was told (probably 
with truth) that the same satirical wag inscribed 
upon the capital portrait in his breakfast-room, 
"Painted in his life-time." — W. Jerdan ("Men I 
have Known")/ 

There is something preternatural in the cold, 
clear, marbly paleness that pervades, and, as it were, 
penetrates his features to a depth that seems to 
preclude all change, even that of death itself. Yet 
there is nothing in the least degree painful or re- 
pulsive in the sight, nothing that is suggestive of 
death. — P. G. Patmore (" My Friends and Acquaint- 
ance ").* 



' Jerdan (W^illiam). Men I have Known. 8vo. London, 1866. 
' Patmore (Peter George). My Friends and Acquaintance. 
3 vols. Svo. London, 1854. 



Perso7ial 
appearance. 



174 



SAMUEL ROGERS. 



Personal 
apjiearance. 



A man evidently aged, yet remarkably active, 
though with a slight stoop and grizzled hair ; not, to 
my thinking, with a pleasant countenance ; cer- 
tainly not with the frank and free expression of a 
poet who loved and lived with Nature ; . . . He 
did not often smile, and seldom laughed. — S. C. Hall 
(" Book of Memories "). 

His countenance was the theme of continued 
jokes. It was "ugly," if not repulsive. The ex- 
pression w^as in no w^ay, nor under any circumstances, 
good ; he had a drooping eye and a thick under lip ; 
his forehead was broad, his head large — out of pro- 
portion, indeed, to his form. . . . His features 
were "cadaverous." Lord Dudley once asked him 
why, now that he could afford it, he did not set up 
his hearse ; and it is said, that Sydney Smith once 
gave him mortal offence by recommending him, 
"when he sat for his portrait, to be drawn saying 
his prayers, v/ith his face hidden by his hands." — 
S. C. Hall (" Book of Memories"). 

His head was very fine, and I never could quite 
understand the satirical sayings about his personal 
appearance which have crept into the literary gossip 
of his time. He was by no means the vivacious 
spectre some of his contemporaries have repre- 
sented him, and I never thought of connecting him 
with that terrible line in the " Mirror of Magis- 
trates ; " — 

" His withered fist still striking at Death's door." 

His dome of brain w^as one of the amplest and most 



SAMUEL ROGERS. 



175 



perfectly shaped I ever saw, and his countenance 
was very far from unpleasant. His faculties to en- 
joy had not perished with age. He certainly looked 
like a well-seasoned author, but not dropping to 
pieces yet. — James T. Fields (" Old Acquaintance ").' 

My first look at the poet, then in his seventy- 
eighth year, was an agreeable surprise, and a pro- 
test in my mind against the malignant injustice 
which had been done him. As a young man he 
might have been uncomely if not as ugly as his re- 
vilers had painted him, but as an old man there 
was an intellectual charm in his countenance and a 
fascination in his manner which more than atoned 
for any deficiency of personal beauty. — Charles 
Mackay (" Forty Years' Recollections ").^ 

Several times, at Pet worth, we met Mr. Rogers. 
I recollect that, one evening, all the young ladies in 
the house, formed a circle round him, listening with 
extreme interest to a series of ghost stories which 
he told with great effect. Indeed, while he stayed 
at Petworth, the beaux there had little chance 
of engaging the belles, when he was in the room. 
His manner of telling a story was perfect. I re- 
member only one other person, the late Lady Hol- 
land, who, like him, used the few^est words with the 
greatest possible effect ; sometimes more than sup- 



* Fields (James T.). Old Acquaintance : Barry Cornwall and 
some of his Friends. 32mo. Boston : J. R. Osgood & Co. 1876. 

2 Mackay (Charles). Forty Years' Recollections, from 1830 to 
1870. 2 vols. 8vo. London, 1877. 



Personal 
af>pearaiice. 



Conversa- 
tion. 



176 



SAMUEL ROGERS. 



Conversa- 
tion. 



Dickens's 

invitation o/ 

//is manner 

of telling a 

story. 



plying the omission of a word by a look, or a gest- 
ure. Rogers told his stories as in prose he wrote 
them. The story of '' Marcolini " in his " Italy," for 
instance, could not have better words, nor fewer, 
without loss of interest. — C. R. Leslie (" Autobio- 
graphical Recollections ").^ 

My uncle's conversation could hardly be called 
brilliant. He seldom aimed at wit, though he en- 
joyed it in others. He often told anecdotes of his 
early recollections and of the distinguished persons 
with whom he had been acquainted. These he told 
with great neatness and fitness in the choice of 
words, as may be understood by an examination of 
the prose notes to his poems. But the valuable 
part of his conversation was his good sense joined 
with knowledge of literature and art, and yet more 
particularly his constant aim at improvement, and 
the care that he took to lead his friends to what was 
worth talking about. — Samuel Sharpe (" Some Par- 
ticulars of the Life of S. Rogers ").^ 

In Percy Fitzgerald's *' Recreations of a Literary 
Man," there is a story of Dickens's imntation of Ro- 
gers, which, although in very bad taste, is too sug- 
gestive to be omitted : — " I recall his filling more 
than an hour with some sketches of * Old Rogers,' 
the poet, and of his mode of telling a story. Those 

^ Leslie (Charles Robert). Autobiographical Recollections. 
Ed. by Tom Taylor. 2 vols. i2mo. London, i860. 



^ This sketch was privately printed in London, in 1859. 
since been published in several editions of R.'s poenms. 



It has 



SAMUEL ROGERS. 



177 



who attended the Readings will recall Justice Stare- 
leigh : the strangely obtuse and owl-like expression, 
and the slow, husky croak with which the words 
were projected. This was borrowed from the ' Poet 
of Memory,' and many were the stories he told in 
his manner. The old man would relate his cut-and- 
dried ^ tales,' always in the same fashion, and 'go 
on,' like a wheezy musical box, on the smallest in- 
vitation. Sometimes Dickens would go and dine 
with him, and he described the scene as piteously 
grotesque, a faithful man-servant cheerily suggest- 
ing the old stories which they knew by heart. 
Thus : * Tell Mr. Dickens, sir, the story of the Hon. 
Charles Townshend and the beautiful Miss Curzon.' 
The old poet would start in a slow, almost Grego- 
rian tone, and in curious old-fashioned phrase : 
'The Hon-or-able Charles Townshend' (this name 
will serve as well as another) 'became enamored of 
Miss Curzon. She was beeyewtiful. He beribed 
her maid to conceal him in her cheeamber, and 
when she arrived to dress for a ball, emerged from 
his hiding-place. She looked at him fixedly, then 
said : "Why don't you begin ? " She took hi?nfor the 
'air-dresser / '" * 

He was a great walker, and it was his daily cus- 
tom after breakfast (which was often a long meal, 
as he was fond of company at his breakfast-table) 
to go out and spend the greater part of the day in 
the open air, quite regardless of the weather, of 
which he never complained. — C. R. Leslie ("Auto- 
biographical Recollections "). 



« See pp. 182, 183, 187. 



Dickens's 

imitation oj 

his manner- 

of telling a 

story. 



A great 
7valker. 



I.— 12 



1/8 



SAMUEL ROGERS. 



Not afraid 

of jfoul 
7vsather. 



Ohservation 
of nature. 



Good taste. 



On occasions when he attended meetings of the 
Royal Society, ... at the close, let the night 
be ever so severe, if rain or snow were falling, he 
was invariably seen buttoning up his great-coat in 
preparation for a walk home. On one occasion I 
ventured to say to him, ..." Mr. Rogers, it is 
a very wet night ; I have a fly at the door : may I 
have the honor to leave you at your house ? " but 
the invitation was declined ; the old man faced the 
weather, from which younger and stronger men 
would have wisely shrunk. — S. C. Hall ("Book of 
Memories "). 

In Mr. Clayden's biography of Rogers's nephew, 
Samuel Sharpe,^ the following extract from Sharpe's 
diary is printed : " He said he never, when he could 
help it, missed seeing the sunset, and regretted that 
by being in bed we lost the sunrise. He often felt 
inclined to stop the people in the streets to show 
them a glorious sky. Looking at such wonders of 
nature he thought should be cultivated as a habit." 

Whatever place may be assigned to Samuel Ro- 
gers among poets, he deserves to hold the high- 
est place among men of taste, not merely of taste 
for this or that, but of general good taste in all 
things. He was the only man I have ever known 
(not an artist) who felt the beauties of art like an 
artist. He was too quiet to exercise the influence 
he should have maintained among the patrons of art ; 



- Clayden (P. W.). Samuel Sharpe, Egyptologist and Transla- 
tor of the Bible. 8vo. London, 1883. 



' '■ ' - ^ muj y \ 'J iJ F- J i » 1 1 « I ■ I 



SAMUEL ROGERS. 



179 



but, as far as his own patronage extended, it was 
most useful. He employed, and always spoke his 
mind in favor of, Flaxman, Stothard, and Turner, 
when they were little appreciated by their country- 
men. The proof of his superior judgment to that of 
any contemporary collector of art or vertu is to be 
found in the fact that there was nothing in his 
house that was not valuable. In most other collec- 
tions with which I am acquainted, however fine the 
works of art, or however rare the objects of curi- 
osity, I have always found something that betrayed 
a want of taste — an indifferent picture, a copy pass- 
ing for an original, or something vulgar in the way 
of ornament. — C. R. Leslie (*' Autobiographical 
Recollections"). 

In his writings, as in his daily life, Mr. Rogers 
was fastidious. In correcting the press, only Camp- 
bell could equal him for anxiety to polish. On one 
occasion I chanced to see a sheet of one of his 
poems C Italy," I think) as it was passing through 
the printer's hands, and pointed out some very 
slight errors. The reader told him of this hyper- 
criticism (for it was nothing more), and he cancelled 
the whole of the impression, and introduced the re- 
quired alteration at the expense of above one hun- 
dred pounds. In other respects he would not be 
guilty of anything like extravagance. On the con- 
trary, there was a curious spice of the miser-economy 
in his nature. — W. Jerdan (" Men I have Known"). 

One Friday afternoon, when I went as usual to 
my printer's, ... to correct the last proofs, 



Good taste. 



Fastidious- 
ness. 



8o 



SAMUEL ROGERS. 



Costly accu- 
racy. 



Composition 

a slo7v and 

laborious 

process. 



Musical 
taste : an 

or^an- 
gj-inder in 

the hall. 



. . . I happened to glance over some loose sheets 
lying on the desk of Rogers's " Italy " (I think). I 
pointed out two or three of the slightest inaccu- 
racies or doubtful points to the reader, . . . 
which he communicated to the poet, and the result 
was the cancelling of several sheets, at an expense of 
fifty or sixty pounds. The majority of writers 
w^ould not have given sixpence to mend them all. 
Not so the fastidious Rogers. — W. Jerdan (" Auto- 
biography "). 

Writing with great difficulty himself, he dispar- 
aged and undervalued all who wrote with facility ; 
and boasted to me that he had employed three weeks 
in writing a short note to Lord Melbourne, to sug- 
gest the bestowal of a pension. . . . There was 
not a word in it, he said, which he had not studied 
and weighed, and examined, so as to assure himself 
that it could not be omitted or exchanged for a 
better. — Charles Mackay ("Forty Years' Recollec- 
tions "). 

Rogers's musical taste was a natural gift, the 
result of organization, and partook very slightly of 
the acquired or conventional quality. He delighted 
in sw^eet sounds, in soft flowing airs, ... in 
simple melodies, rather than in complicated harmo- 
nies. . . . Amongst Italian composers, Bellini 
was his favorite. Although he was a constant at- 
tendant at the concerts of ancient and sacred music, 
he had slight relish for the acknowledged master- 
pieces of Handel, Beethoven, or Mozart. When 
he dined at home and alone, it was his custom 
to have an Italian organ-grinder playing in the 



SAMUEL ROGERS. 



I8l 



hall/ . . . He kept nightingales in cages on 
his staircase and in his bedroom, closely covered 
up from the light, to sing to him. — x\non. {Edinbui'gh 
Review^ July, 1856). 

Those who know Rogers only from his writings, 
can have no conception of his humor. I have seen 
him, in his old age, imitate the style of dancing of a 
very great lady with an exactness that made it much 
more ludicrous than any caricature ; and I remem- 
ber, when I met him at Cassiobury, that he made 
some droll attack, I quite forget what it was about, 
on one of the company, and went on heightening 
the ridicule at every sentence, till his face ''was 
like a wet cloak ill laid up," as were the faces of all 
present, and especially the face of the gentleman 
he was attacking. 

At an evening party, at which I met him, the 
the oddest looking little old lady, for she was as broad 
as she was long, and most absurdly dressed, as she 
was leaving the room saw him near the door, and 
accosted him : " How do you do, Mr. Rogers ? It 
is very long since I have seen you, and I don't 
think, now, you know who I am." " Could I ever 
forget you ! " He said it with such an emphasis 
that she squeezed his hand with delight. — C. R. 
Leslie (" Autobiographical Recollections "). 

Rogers was unceasingly at war with the late Lady 
Davy. One day at dinner she called across the 



^ It is amusing, in this connection, to remember that Dickens 
wrote to Forster that he had bought a new accordeon, upon which 
he played for the benefit of the passengers, while on his first voy- 
age to this country. 



1 82 



SAMUEL ROGERS. 



Humor, 



Insincerity. 



table ; " Now, Mr. Rogers, I am sure you are talk- 
ing about me " (not attacking, as the current ver- 
sion runs). "Lady Davy," was the retort, " I pass 
my life in defending you." — A. Hayward ("Es- 
says ").^ 

I soon discovered that it was the principle of his 
sarcastic wit not only to sacrifice all truth to it, but 
even all his friends, and that he did not care to 
knovv^ any who would not allow themselves to be 
abused for the purpose of lighting up his breakfast 
with sparkling wit, though not quite, indeed, at the 
expense of the persons then present. I well remem- 
ber, on one occasion . . . Mr. Rogers was en- 
tertaining us with a volume of sarcasms upon a 
disagreeable lawyer, who made pretensions to knowl- 
edge and standing not to be borne ; on this occasion 
the old poet went on, not only to the end of the 
breakfast, but to the announcement of the very man 
himself on an accidental visit, and then, with a 
bland smile and a cordial shake of the hand, he said 
to him, " My dear fellow, w^e have all been talking 
about you up to this very minute," — and looking at 
his company still at table, and with a significant wink, 
he, with extraordinary adroitness and experienced 
tact, repeated many of the good things, reversing 
the meaning of them, and giving us the enjoyment of 
the double ente?idre. The visitor w^as charmed, nor 
even dreamed of the ugliness of his position. 
. . . I should be unjust to the venerable poet 



' Hayward (Abraham). Biographical and Critical Essays, 
vols. 8vo. London, 1858. 



SAMUEL ROGERS. 



183 



not to add, that notwithstanding what is here related 
of him, he oftentimes showed himself the generous 
and noble-hearted man. — Joseph Severn (Atlantic 
Monthly, April, 1863). 

He was, plainly speaking, at once a flatterer and 
a cynic. It was impossible for those who knew 
him best to say, at any moment, whether he w^as in 
earnest or covert jest. Whether he was ever in 
earnest, there is no sort of evidence but his acts ; 
and the consequence w^as that his flattery went 
for nothing, except with novices, w^hile his causti- 
city bit as deep as he intended. He would begin 
with a series of outrageous compliments, in a meas- 
ured style which forbade interruption ; and, if he 
was allowed to finish, w^ould go away and boast how 
much he had made a victim swallow. He would 
accept a constant seat at a great man's table, flatter 
his host to the top of his bent, and then, as is upon 
record, go away and say that the company there 
was got up by conscription — that there were two 
parties before whom everybody must appear, his 
host and the police. When it was safe, he would 
try his sarcasms on the victims themselves. A mul- 
titude of his sayings are rankling in people's mem- 
ories which could not possibly have had any other 
origin than the love of giving pain. Some are so 
atrocious as to suggest the idea that he had a sort 
of psychological curiosity to see how people could 
bear such inflictions. — Harriet Martineau ("Bio- 
graphical Sketches").^ 



' Martineau (Harriet), 
don, 1869. 



Biographical Sketches. i2mo. Lon- 



A Jlatterer 
a7id a cynic. 



84 



SAMUEL ROGERS, 



Wilful 
rudeness. 



Gratuitous 
brutality. 



Few old men have ever shown a more mortifying 
behavior to a young one than Mr. Rogers, from the 
first to the last, displayed towards me. There was 
no doubting the dislike which he had conceived for 
me, and which he took every possible pains to make 
me feel. . . . Whatever the cause might be, he 
did his best to make me feel small and uncomforta- 
ble ; and it was often done by repeating the same 
discouragement. The scene would be a dinner of 
eight ; at which he would say, loud enough to be 
heard, ''Who is that young man with red hair?" 
(meaning me). The ansAver would be, "Mr. Chor- 
ley," et cetera^ et cetera. " Never heard of him be- 
fore," was the rejoinder : after which Rogers would 
turn to his dinner, like one, who, having disposed 
of a nuisance, might unfold his napkin, and eat his 
soup in peace. — H. F. Chorley ("Autobiography").' 

I always considered myself the person to whom 
Rogers made his most gratuitously ill-natured speech. 
. . . It was at the Aiitient Concerts, on a night 
when the room was crowded, . . . and when 
every seat was occupied. Mine was at the end of a 
bench, by the side of the Dowager Lady Essex 
(Miss Stephens that had been). She was one of 
Rogers's prime favorites. . . . He loved to sit 
next her, and pay her those elegant and courteous 
compliments, the art of paying which is lost. When 
I saw the old gentleman creeping down the side 
avenue betwixt the benches, at a loss for a seat, I 



^ Chorley (Henry F.). Autobiography, Memoir, and Letters. 
Compiled by H. G. Hewlett. 2 vols. T2mo. London, 1873. 



SAMUEL ROGERS. 



185 



said, ^^ Now I shall give up my place to Mr. Rogers; 
good-flighty While I was stooping for my hat, 
"Come," said she, in her cordial way, "come, Mr. 
Rogers, here is a seat for you by me." " Thank 
you," said the civil old gentleman, fixing his dead 
eyes on me, as I was doing my best to get out of the 
way ; ''thank you ; but I don't like your company. — 
H. F. Chorley (" Autobiography "). 

May df, 185 1. Forster called; w^ent with him to 
Rogers. Found the old man very cheerful, thinner 
than when I last saw him, but in very good spirits. 
He told all his stories ''over again." ... Took 
leave of dear old Rogers once more. I think indeed 
for the last time. I cannot make out his character. 
He is surely good-natured, with philanthropic and 
religious feelings, but his fondness for saying a 
sharp thing shakes one's certainty in him : his ap- 
parent desire too to produce effect, I think, some- 
times awakens doubts of his sincerity in some minds. 
— W. C. Macready (" Reminiscences ").^ 

He was one of those few instances in which talent 
is found united with wealth and energetic labor. 
In his literary work he was most persevering ; so 
much so that he spent no less than seventeen years 
in writing and revising " The Pleasures of Memory." 
But Rogers was not only a wealthy banker and rural 
poet ; he had also a keen sense of humor, and there 



' Macready (William Charles). Reminiscences and Selections 
from his Diaries and Letters. Ed. by Sir F. Pollock. 2 vols. 
8vo. London, 1875. 



Gratuitous 
brutality. 



In doubt 
concerjting 
his charac- 
ter. 



Various 
character- 
istics. 



1 86 



SAMUEL ROGERS, 



Various 
character- 
istics. 



Contradic- 
tion of 
character 
increased 
by age. 



A cold 
critic. 



was something in the deadness of his countenance 
and the dryness of his manner which seemed to give 
additional point to his sarcasms. . . . Lord 
Lansdowne once spoke to him in congratulatory 
terms about the marriage of a common friend. " I 
do not think it so desirable," observed Rogers. 
" No ! " replied Lord Lansdowne, '' why not ? His 
friends approve of it ! " *' Happy man ! " returned 
Rogers, " to satisfy all the world. His friends 
are pleased, and his enemies a7'e delighted ! " — A. G. 
L'EsTRANGE ("Life of W. Harness"). 

As age advanced upon him, the admixture of the 
generous and malignant in him became more sin- 
gular. A footman robbed him of a large quantity of 
plate ; and of a kind which was inestimable to 
him. He was incensed, and desired never to hear 
of the fellow more, — the man having absconded. 
Not many months afterward Rogers was paying the 
passage to New York of the man's wife and family 
— somebody having told him that that family junc- 
tion might afford a chance of the man's reformation. 
Such were his deeds at the very time that his 
tongue was dropping verjuice, and his wit w^as 
sneering behind backs at a whole circle of old 
friends and hospitable entertainers. — Harriet Mar- 
TiNEAU (" Biographical Sketches "). 

Anything approaching hilarity, aught akin to en- 
thusiasm, to a genuine flow of heart and soul, was 
foreign to his nature — or, at all events, seemed to 
be so. Yet, of a surety, he was a keen observer ; he 
looked " quite through the deeds of men ; " and his 



'.^<tV.. i .^.V '. ■' ti'^iM-M^t ^ 



SAMUEL ROGERS. 



187 



natural talent had been matured and polished by 
long and familiar intercourse with all the finer 
spirits of his age. — S. C. Hall (" Book of Memories "). 

If he had done no more than check pushing pre- 
sumption, or expose fawning insignificance, his 
habitual severity of comment would have caused no 
reflection on his memory ; but it became so for- 
midable at one time, that his guests might be seen 
manoeuvring which should leave the room last, so 
as not to undergo the apprehended ordeal. — A. Hay- 
ward (" Essays "). 

Rogers, whose " Table-talk " was charming, . . . 
never could speak in public. — R. Shelton Mac- 
kenzie (" Memoir of Wilson ").' 

Wealthy, unmarried, highly cultivated in all mat- 
ters of literature and art, his conversation seasoned 
with anecdote and personal sarcasms uttered in a 
curious sepulchral voice, he gained and kept a 
higlier place than his poetry alone could have pro- 
cured for him. He was the arbiter in many of the 
literary controversies and quarrels of his day. His 
dinner-table — the blajida conciliatrix in so many 
social discords — ministered well to this object. In 
society his most severe sarcasms were often hidden 
under honeyed phrases ; leaving them obvious to 
others, while undetected by those whose foibles he 
assailed. There was foundation for the remark 



^Wilson (John). Noctes Ambrosianse. With Memoirs and 
Notes by R. Shelton Mackenzie. 5 vols. i2mo. New York, 1854. 



A formid- 
able satir- 
ist. 



Inability ta 
speak i/t 
public. 



Social 
traits. 



SAMUEL ROGERS, 



Social 
traits. 



His favor- 
ite author. 



Fondness 
for chil- 
dren. 



that a note from Rogers generally conveyed some 
indirect satire on the person to whom it was 
addressed — the more flattery on the surface, the 
more gall underneath. He could be and was ever 
generous to poverty and real distress, but intol- 
erant to all that presented itself in social rivalry 
to himself. The usurpation by others of talk at a 
dinner-table, or an interruption to one of his own 
anecdotes, was sure to provoke some access of bitter- 
ness bitterly expressed. These feelings increased 
with increasing age. They w^ere somewhat curi- 
ously modified in the distrust with which he latterly 
regarded his own memory — rarely venturing upon an 
anecdote without a caveat as to his having told it be- 
fore. He long survived most of his contemporaries 
of middle life, and all those who, in retaliation for his 
sarcasms, were wont to spend their Avit on his death- 
like physiognomy. — Sir Henry Holland ('' Recol- 
lections "). 

When I used to go and sit with Mr. Rogers, I 
never asked him what I should read to him without 
his putting into my hands his own poems, which 
always lay by him on his table. — Frances Ann 
Kemble (" Records of Later Life ").^ 

Mr. Rogers was very fond of children. On his 
visits to us, when ours were little ones, his first cere- 
mony was to rub noses with them. "Now," he 
would say, "we are friends for life. If you will 



^ Kemble (Frances Ann). Records of Later Life. i2mo. New 
York : Henry Holt & Co. 1882. 



SAMUEL ROGERS. 



189 



come and live with me, you shall have as much 
cherry-pie as you can eat, and a white pony to 
ride." — C. R. Leslie ("Autobiographical Recollec- 
tions "). 

Mr. J. T. Fields, in his " Old Acquaintance," tells 
of an interview with Rogers, in the course of which 
a portrait of him was criticised : — '' Some one said, 
'The portrait is too hard. ' 'I won't be painted as a 
hard man,' rejoined Rogers. ' I am not a hard man, 
am I, Procter?' asked the old poet. Procter de- 
precated with energy such an idea as that. Look- 
ing at the portrait again, Rogers said with great 
feeling, ' Children would run away, from that face, 
and they never ran away from me ! ' " 

Those who are disposed to think the worst of Mr. 
Rogers, say that, by the severity of his remarks, he 
delighted in giving pain. I know that, by the kind- 
liness of his remarks, and still more by the kind- 
liness of his acts, he delighted to give pleasure. — C. 
R. Leslie ("Autobiographical Recollections"). 

It has been rumored that he w^as a sayer of bitter 
things. I know that he was a giver of good things 
■ — a kind and amiable patron, where a patron was 
wanted ; never ostentatious or oppressive, and 
always a friend in need. He was ready with his 
counsel ; ready with his money. I never put his 
generosity to the test, but I know enough to testify 
that it existed, and was often exercised in a delicate 
manner, and on the slightest hint. — B. W. Procter 
(" Autobiographical Fragment "). 



Fondness 
for chil- 
dren. 



Practical 
benevolence. 



190 



SAMUEL ROGERS. 



Kindness to 
Campbell. 



'7te frieni 
of j>oor 
Jioets. 



Left Rogers's with Campbell, who told me, as we 
walked along, the friendly service which Rogers had 
just done him by consenting to advance five hun- 
dred pounds, which Campbell wants at this moment 
to purchase a share in the new {Metropolitati) maga- 
zine. . . . Campbell had offered as security an 
estate worth between four and five thousand pounds 
which he has in Scotland, but Rogers had very gen- 
erously said that he did not want security. . . . 
These are noble things of Rogers, and he does 
more of such things than the world has any notion 
of. — Thomas Moore ("Journal," etc.). 

He was always substantially helping poor poets. 
Besides the innumerable instances, known only to 
his intimates, of the attention he bestowed, as well 
as the money, in the case of poetical basket-makers, 
poetical footmen, and other such hopeless sons of 
the Muse, his deeds of munificence toward men of 
genius were too great to be concealed. ... It 
was Rogers who secured to Crabbe the three thou- 
sand pounds from Murray, which were in jeopardy 
before. He advanced five hundred pounds to 
Campbell to purchase a share of the Metropolitan 
Afagazine, and refused security. And he gave 
thought, took trouble, used influence, and adven- 
tured advice. — Harriet Martineau ('' Biographical 
Sketches "). 

Mr. Rogers was only a cynic in theory, not in 
practice, and was always ready to lend a helping 
hand, either by good counsel or by more sterling 
and palpable aid. . . , He said unkind things. 



V^^^ ,*" Jlil 



SAMUEL ROGERS. 



IQI 



but he did kind ones in the most gracious manner. 
If he was sometimes severe upon those who were 
" up," he was always tender to those who were 
"down." He never closed his purse-strings against 
a friend, or refused to help the young and deserv- 
ing. — Charles Mackay (" Forty Years' Recollec- 
tions "). 

Before condemning Rogers on the evidence of 
those to whom the black side of his character was 
most frequently presented, we must hear those 
whose attention was constantly attracted to the 
white side. One female reminiscent, nurtured and 
domesticated with genius from her childhood, writes 
thus : — 

*'I knew the kind old man for five and twenty 
years. I say kind advisedly, because no one did so 
many kind things to those who, being unable to 
dig, to beg are ashamed. The sharp sayings were 
remembered and repeated because they were so 
clever . . . He was essentially a gentleman, by 
education, by association, — his manners were per- 
fect. . . . He not only gave freely and gener- 
ously, but looked out for occasions of being kind." 
— A. Hayward C Essays "). 

Nov. 29, 1835. I breakfasted with Rogers tete a 
tete^ staying v/ith him from ten till one o'clock. A 
very agreeable morning, and I left him with feelings 
of enhanced respect. There was very little of that 
severity of remark for which he is reproached. 
Candor and good sense marked all he said. . . . 
It was painful (he said) that he recollected so dis- 



The friejid 
of poor 
J>octs. 



Kulogies. 



192 



SAMUEL ROGERS. 



Eulogies. 



tinctly his faults, "but," said he, "every man has 
his kind moments, and occasionally does kind ac- 
tions ; of course, I, as well as others — and it is dis- 
tressing I cannot recollect them." "A Pharisee 
would," I replied, "and surely it is better not'' — 
Henry Crabb Robinson (" Diary "). 

I think you very fortunate in having Rogers in 
Rome. Show me a more kind and friendly man ; 
secondly, one from good manners, knowledge, fun, 
taste, and observation, more agreeable ; thirdly, a 
man of more strict political integrity, and of better 
character in private life. If I were to choose any 
Englishman in foreign parts whom I should wish 
to blunder upon, it should be Rogers. — Sydney 
Smith (From a Letter, 1815), 



JOHN KEATS. 

I79S-182I. 



'I ' • I H I I II 



INTRODUCTORY NOTE, 



FEW things are more interesting or more pro- 
foundly sad than the story of Keats's life. 
Dying in his twenty-sixth year, he was unable to 
round his character into symmetry, or fitly to de- 
velop those qualities, which, even in their imma- 
turity, win our admiration and esteem ; for Keats 
had many sterling qualities. Courage, loyalty, high 
purpose, strength and gentleness — all are manifest ; 
yet in all there is a certain crudeness, a lack of due 
proportion and of that poise w^hich is gained through 
long experience of life, "in years which bring the 
philosophic mind." There was not time for the 
ripening of his nature. Not only as to literary 
work, which cannot be here considered, but like- 
wise as to character, this brief life suggests the 
opening processes of an experiment. It was tenta- 
tive, — reaching forth through hardship, doubt, and 
sorrow, toward great possibilities, possibilities which 
lay within that earnest seeker's grasp — could he but 
have lived ! 

Unhappily, the accounts of Keats are meagre and 
unsatisfactory. It has been found exceptionally 
difficult to gather materials illustrative of his char- 



19^ - JOHN KEATS. 



acter. Lord Houghton wrote concerning him from 
hearsay, not from personal knowledge, and his book 
does not readily lend itself to quotation ; and only 
a few of Keats's contemporaries have left records of 
him. The result in the present instance is highly 
unsatisfactory, and this note might, perhaps, with 
more propriety have taken the form of a simple 
apology. The Jews contrived to make bricks, after 
a fashion, with stubble instead of straw ; but it is 
presumable that those bricks were unsatisfactory 
to any honest workman. 

The principal source of information is the ** Life, 
Letters, and Literary Remains of John Keats," by 
Richard Monckton Milnes (Lord Houghton). The 
letters of Keats to Miss Fanny Brawne, should 
also be read — unseemly as it was to publish them. 
The letters of Keats are by far the best illustrations 
of his character. The most complete collection of 
these letters which has yet appeared, is that edited 
by H. B. Forman.^ A large amount of very valuable 
biographical information will be found in these vol- 
umes ; the reminiscences of Keats, by various 
friends, have been brought together ; and the editor 
gives a careful description and analysis of the va- 
rious portraits of him. There is a memoir by James 
Russell Lowell, prefixed to an edition of Keats's 
poems, published in Boston, in 1854 ; this has been 
republished, with slight alterations, in the second 
series of Mr. Lowell's "Among my Books." An 
especially valuable essay, by Matthew Arnold, will 



^ Forman (Harry Buxton, editor). Poetical Works and other 
Writings of John Keats. 4 vols. 8vo. London, 1883. 



JOHN KEATS. 197 



be found in Ward's " English Poets," vol. iv., p. 425. 
The following works also claim attention : — Leigh 
Hunt's "Autobiography;" B. R. Haydon's "Cor- 
respondence and Table-talk," edited by F. W. 
Haydon ; Procter's " Reminiscences," in the volume 
entitled "Bryan Waller Procter: Autobiographical 
Fragment, etc.," edited by Coventry Patmore ; 
Charles and Mary Cowden Clarke's " Recollections 
of Writers ; " the anonymous articles, entitled " A 
Greybeard's Gossip," in the New Monthly Magazine ^ 
1847 ; and an article by Joseph Severn, in the Atlan- 
tic Monthly^ April, 1863. 

LEADING EVENTS OF KEATS' S LIFE. 

1795. Bom, October 29th, in London. 

1804. — (Aged 9,) His father dies. A scholar at Mr. Clarke's 
school at Enfield. 

1 8 10. — (Aged 15.) Apprenticed to a surgeon. 

1817. — (Aged 22.) Publishes his first volume of poems. 

1818.— (Aged 23.) Publishes "Endymion." 

1820. — (Aged 25.) Publishes a volume containing "Lamia," ''Is- 
abella," "The Eve of Saint Agnes," and 
other poems. Leaves England with Jo- 
seph Severn. 

1 82 1. — (Aged 25 years, 3 months.) Dies in Rome, February 23d. 



JOHN KEATS, 



HE gave vent to his impulses with no regard for 
consequences ; he violently attacked an usher 
who had boxed his brother's ears, and on the occasion 
of his mother's death, which occurred suddenly, in 
1810, ... he hid himself in a nook under the 
master's desk for several days, in a long agony of 
grief, and would take no consolation from master or 
from friend. The sense of humor, which almost uni- 
versally accompanies a deep sensibility, . . . 
abounded in him ; from the first, he took infinite de- 
light in any grotesque originality, or novel prank of 
his companions, and, after the ejchibition of physical 
courage, appeared to prize these above all other 
qualifications. . . . His skill in all manly exer- 
cises, and the perfect generosity of his disposition 
made him extremely popular : " He combined," 
writes one of his school-fellows, **a terrier-like res- 
oluteness of character, with the most noble placa- 
bility," and another mentions that his extraordinary 
energy, animation, and ability, impressed them all 
with a conviction of his future greatness, " but rather 
in a military or some such active sphere of life, 
than in the peaceful arena of literature." — R. M. 
MiLNES (" Life of Keats ").' 



' Milnes (Richard Monckton, Lord Houghton). Life, Letters, 
and Literary Remains of John Keats. 2 vols. 8vo. London, 1848. 



ChildJwod, 



20O 



JOHN KEATS. 



At school. 



A hard stu- 
de7tt at 
school. 



Not the less beloved was he for having a highly 
pugnacious spirit, which, when roused, was one of 
the most picturesque exhibitions — off the stage — 
I ever saw. One of the transports of that marvels 
lous actor, Edmund Kean — whom, by the way, he 
idolized — was its nearest resemblance ; and the two 
were not very dissimilar in face and figure. ... 
His passion at times was almost ungovernable ; and 
his brother George, being considerably the taller and 
stronger, used frequently to hold him down by main 
force, laughing when John was in "one of his 
moods," and was endeavoring to beat him. It was 
all, however, a wisp of straw conflagration ; for he 
had an intensely tender affection for his brothers, 
and proved it upon the most trying occasions. He 
was not merely the ''favorite of all," like a pet 
prize-fighter, for his terrier courage ; but his high- 
mindedness, his utter unconsciousness of a mean 
motive, his placability, his generosity, wrought so 
general a feeling in his behalf, that I never heard a 
word of disapproval from any one, superior or 
equal, who had known him.' — Charles Cowden 
Clarke (" Recollections of Keats," Gentleman's Mag- 
azine^ February, 1874). 

My father was in the habit, at each half-year's 
vacation of bestowing prizes upon those pupils who 
had performed the greatest quantity of voluntary 
work ; and such was Keats's indefatigable energy for 
the last two or three successive half-years of his re- 



^ Keats was a pupil in the school of C. C. Clarke's father ; and 
it is to his boyhood that the preceding passage refers. 



'■ k* > .«i.m ' ii ' jjJ2^-" I . ' . 



JOHN KEATS. 



201 



maining at school, that, upon each occasion, he 
took the first prize by a considerable distance. He 
was at work before the first school-hour began, and 
that was at seven o'clock ; almost all the intervening 
times of recreation were so devoted ; and during the 
afternoon holidays, when all were at play, he would 
be in the school — almost the only one — at his Latin 
or French translation ; and so unconscious and re- 
gardless was he of the consequences of so close and 
persevering an application, that he never would 
have taken the necessary exercise had he not been 
sometimes driven out for the purpose by one of the 
masters. — C. C. Clarke ("Recollections of Writ- 
ers ")• 

Keats, when he died, had just completed his four- 
and-twentieth year. He was under the middle 
height ; and his lower limbs were small in compari- 
son with the upper, but neat and well-turned. His 
shoulders were very broad for his size ; he had a 
face in which energy and sensibility were remarka- 
bly mixed up ; an eager power, checked and made 
patient by ill health. Every feature was at once 
strongly cut, and delicately alive. If there was any 
faulty expression it was in the mouth, which was 
not without something of a character of pugnacity. 
The face was rather long than otherwise ; the upper 
lip projected a little over the under ; the chin was 
bold, the cheeks sunken ; the eyes mellow and 
glowing ; large, dark, and sensitive. At the recital 
of a noble action, or a beautiful thought, they 
would suffuse with tears, and his mouth trembled. 
In this there was ill health as well as imagination, 



A hard stu- 
doit at 
school. 



Personal 
aj>pearance. 



202 



JOHN- KEATS. 



Personal 
appearance. 



for he did not like these betrayals of emotion ; and 
he had great personal as well as moral courage. 
He once chastised a butcher, who had been insolent, 
by a regular stand-up fight. His hair, of a brown 
color, was fine, and hung in natural ringlets. The 
head was a puzzle for the phrenologists, being re- 
markably small in the skull ; a singularity which he 
had in common with Byron and Shelley, whose hats 
I could not get on. Keats was sensible of the dis- 
proportion above noticed, between his upper and 
lower extremities ; and he would look at his hand, 
which was faded and swollen in the veins, and say 
it was the hand of a man of fifty. He was a seven 
months' child. — Leigh Hunt (" Autobiography "). 

His stature could have been very little more than 
five feet ; but he was, withal, compactly made and 
well-proportioned ; and before the hereditary dis- 
order which carried him off began to show itself, he 
was active, athletic, and enduringly strong — as the 
fight with the butcher gave full attestation. — C. C. 
Clarke (" Recollections of Keats," Gentleman's Mag- 
azine^ February, 1874). 

Keats has been described by Coleridge in his 
" Table Talk " as " a loose, slack, not well-dressed 
youth ; " and to an observant eye his looks and his 
attenuated frame already (1816) foreshadowed the 
consumption that had marked him for its prey. 
His manner was shy and embarrassed, as of one 
unused to society, and he spoke little. — Anon. 
C'A Graybeard's Gossip," New Monthly Magazine^ 
1847). 



JOHN- KEATS. 



203 



Keats was under the middle size, and somewhat 
large above, in proportion to his lower limbs, 
which, however, were neatly formed ; and he had 
anything in his dress and general demeanor but 
that appearance of levity which has been strangely 
attributed to him. ... In fact, he had so much 
of the reverse, though in no unbecoming degree, 
that he might be supposed to maintain a certain 
jealous care of the appearance and bearing of a 
gentleman, in the consciousness of his genius, and 
perhaps not v/ithout some sense of his origin/ — 
Leigh Hunt (from a letter quoted in S. C. Hall's 
" Book of Memories "), 

A lady, whose feminine acuteness of perception 
is only equalled by the vigor of her understanding, 
tells me she distinctly remembers Keats as he ap- 
peared at this time (i8i8) at Hazlitt's lectures. 
''His eyes were large and blue, his hair auburn ;^ 
he wore it divided down the centre, and it fell in 

' His father was a groom in a livery stable. 

' Charles Cowden Clarke says, in "Recollections of Writers," 
" Reader, alter in your copy of the Life of Keats ... * eyes ' 
light hazel, *hair' lightish broxun and wavy. '''' And Joseph Severn 
wrote to James T. Fields, in 1879, "Lord Houghton's life I 
admire very much, except that he has most obstinately given the 
poet blue eyes, whereas over and over again, I told him that the 
poet's eyes were hazel broxvn.'^'' Further testimony is to be found 
in Mr. John Gilmer Speed's edition of the letters and poems of 
John Keats (New York, Dodd, Mead & Co., 1883). Mr. Speed 
prints a marginal note, written by Mrs. George Keats, the poet's 
sister-in-law, in her copy of Lord Houghton's work : this note, 
referring to the description above, is as follows : "^ mistake. His 
eyes were dark brozvn, almost black, large, soft, and expressive, 
and his hair was a golden red."^^ 



Personal 
appearance. 



204 



JOHN KEATS. 



Personal 
aj>peara7ice. 



Sense of 
humor. 



Grudge 
against 
JNeivton. 



rich masses on each side of his face ; his mouth was 
full, and less intellectual than his other features. 
His countenance lives in my mind as one of singu- 
lar beauty and brightness — it had an expression as 
if he had been looking on some glorious sight. 
The shape of his face had not the squareness of a 
man's, but more like some women's faces I have seen 
— it was so wide over the forehead and so small at 
the chin. He seemed in perfect health, and with life 
offering all things that were precious to him." — R. 
M. MiLNES (" Life of Keats "). 

Keats had a strong sense of humor, though he was 
not, in the strict sense of the term, a humorist, 
still less a farcist. His comic fancy lurked in the 
outermost and most unlooked-for images of associa- 
tion ; which, indeed, may be said to form the com- 
ponents of humor ; nevertheless, they did not 
extend beyond the quaint in fulfilment and success. 
But his perception of humor, with the power of 
transmitting it by imitation, was both vivid and irre- 
sistibly amusing. — C. C. Clarke ('* Recollections 
of Keats," GentleinarH s Magazine^ February, 1874). 

Don't you remember Keats proposing " Confu- 
sion to the memory of Newton," and upon your 
insisting on an explanation before you drank it, 
his saying : *' Because he destroyed the poetry of 
the rainbow by reducing it to a prism " ? — B. R. 
Haydon (from a letter to Wordsworth). 

In conversation he was nothing, or if anything, 
weak and inconsistent ; he had an exquisite sense 



\ 



JOHy KEATS. 



205 



of humor, but it was in the fields that Keats was in 
his glory. His ruin was owing to his want of decis- 
ion of character and power of will, without which 
genius is a curse. He could not bring his mind to 
bear on one object, and was at the mercy of every 
petty theory Leigh Hunt's ingenuity would suggest. 
. . . Fiery, impetuous, ungovernable, and unde- 
cided, he expected the world to bow at once to his 
talents as his friends had done, and he had not pa- 
tience to bear the natural irritation of envy at the 
undoubted proof he gave of strength. Goaded 
by ridicule he distrusted himself, and flew to dissi- 
pation. For six weeks he was hardly ever sober ; 
. . . he told me that he once covered his tongue 
and throat, as far as he could reach, with cayenne 
pepper, in order to enjoy the *' delicious coolness of 
claret in all its glory." This was his own expression.' 
— B. R. Haydon (from a letter to Miss Mitford, 
1821). 

There was no effort about him to say fine things, 
but he did say them most effectively, and they 
gained considerably by his happy transition of 
manner. He joked well or ill, as it happened, and 
with a laugh which still echoes sweetly in many 
ears ; but at the mention of oppression or wrong, 
or at any calumny against those he loved, he rose 
into grave manliness at once, and seemed like a tall 
man. His habitual gentleness made his occasional 



'Charles Cowden Clarke, in his " Recollections of Writers," 
takes exception to Haydon' s criticisms of Keats, and character- 
izes them as unjust and inaccurate. 



Various 
traits. 



yest and 
earnest. 



206 



JOHN KEATS. 



Jest and 
earnest. 



Origin of 

the " Ode to 

a Nightin- 

gale.'^ 



looks of indignation almost terrible. - 
(''Life of Keats"). 



■R. M. MiLNES 



In my knowledge of fellow-beings, I never knew 
one who so thoroughly combined the sweetness 
with the power of gentleness, and the irresistible 
sway of anger, as Keats. His indignation would 
have made the boldest grave ; and they who had 
seen him under the influence of injustice and mean- 
ness of soul would not forget the expression of his 
features. — Charles Cowden Clarke (" Recollec- 
tions of Keats," Gentleman's Magazine , February, 
1874). 

The admirable " Ode to a Nightingale " was 
suggested by the continual song of the bird that, in 
the spring of 1819, had built her nest close to the 
house, and which often threw Keats into a sort of 
trance of tranquil pleasure. One morning he took 
his chair from the breakfast-table, placed it upon 
the grass-plot under a plum-tree, and sat there for 
two or three hours with some scraps of paper in his 
hands. Shortly afterwards, Mr. Brown saw him 
thrusting them away, as w^aste paper, behind some 
books, and had considerable diflEicultyin putting to- 
gether and arranging the stanzas of the Ode. Other 
poems as literally ''fugitive " were rescued in much 
the same way — for he permitted Mr. Brown to copy 
whatever he could pick up, and sometimes assisted 
him.— R. M. Milnes (" Life of Keats "). 

I was introduced to him by Leigh Hunt, and 
found him very pleasant, and free from all affecta- 



JOHN KEATS. 



20/ 



tion in manner and opinion. Indeed, it would be 
difficult to discover a man with a more bright and 
open countenance. He was always ready to hear 
and to reply ; to discuss, to reason, to admit ; and 
to join in serious talk or common gossip. It has 
been said that his poetry was affected and effemi- 
nate. I can only say that I never encountered a 
more manly and simple young man. In person he 
was short, and had eyes large and wonderfully lumi- 
nous, and a resolute bearing ; not defiant, but well 
sustained. — B. W. Procter ("Autobiographical 
Fragment," etc.). 



Barry 
Corn^valFi 
judgynent. 



ROBERT SOUTHEY. 

1774-1843- 



INTRODUCTORY NOTE. 



SOUTHEY was peculiarly and distinctively a 
man of letters. No man has a better claim to 
the title. He says in one of his ''Colloquies," in a 
passage which is manifestly autobiographic, — " Ex- 
cepting that peace which, through God's infinite 
mercy, is derived from a higher source, it is to lit- 
erature, humanly speaking, that I am beholden, not 
only for the means of subsistence, but for every 
blessing which I enjoy ; health of mind and activity 
of mind, contentment, cheerfulness, continual em- 
ployment, and therefore continual pleasure." 

A more book-loving man never lived. Not Lamb 
himself cherished his folios, his " midnight dar- 
lings," with a fonder devotion. Year by year his 
treasures increased. He wore shabby clothes that 
he might add to his hoard, and before his death he 
had gathered together fourteen thousand volumes. 
In old age, when the weary brain could work no 
more, and when the strong man became weaker 
than a child, he still wandered about his library, 
patting and caressing the books w^hich he could no 
longer read. But he was by no means a merely 
bookish man. In a letter to one of his old cronies, 
he says, — " Old friends and old books are the best 



212 ROBERT SOU THEY. 

things that this world affords (I like old wine also), 
and in these I am richer than most men (the wine 
excepted)." His social nature was strong. He 
was habitually reserved, and far from exuberant in 
the expression of his feelings ; but his intimacies 
with men had depth and tenacity — qualities which 
are often lacking in the friendships of more effu- 
sive characters. We may be very sure that Robert 
Southey always valued the old friend more highly 
than the old book. 

In youth his religious and political beliefs were 
influenced by the teachings of Gibbon and of Rous- 
seau. He declined to take orders because of con- 
scientious scruples. At Oxford he would not permit 
the barber to decorate his head according to the 
prevailing mode, but wore his hair long and unpow- 
dered, in imitation of the French revolutionists. 
He formed a plan, in company with Coleridge and 
some other friends, to found a Pantisocracy in 
America — an ideal commonwealth, wherein nothing 
unclean should find entrance ; and he wrote glow- 
ing revolutionary poems, one of which — " Wat 
Tyler " — was published in later years by his enemies, 
to his no small annoyance. After a few years these 
ardors abated very perceptibly, and he settled 
down, together with Wordsworth, Coleridge, and 
others, into a stanch Tory, and a zealous supporter 
of the Established Church. The character of his 
churchmanship may be inferred from the following 
extract from a letter written by him in mature life : 
— ** I have an instinctive abhorrence of bigotry. 
When Dissenters talk of the Establishment, they 
make me feel like a High-Churchman ; and when I 



ROBERT S OUT HEY. 21 3 

get among High-Churchmen, I am ready to take 
refuge in Dissent." 

His change of opinion gained him much applause, 
and also much censure — to both of which he was 
charmingly indifferent. In such cases men are 
wont to use the terms '* convert" and "apostate" 
upon a principle which is as convenient as it is defi- 
nite ; and in strict accordance with this principle 
it was a matter of course that Sou they should be 
greeted as a convert by those who agreed with him 
in his later convictions, and it was equally a matter 
of course that those from whom he had parted com- 
pany should stigmatize him as a renegade. Assu- 
redly there was nothing base in his motives. It is 
impossible to escape the conviction that in this, as 
in all else, he was a high-minded, true-hearted man ; 
and although it must have seemed rather odd that 
the author of " Wat Tyler " should become Poet 
Laureate and write loyal effusions, there is good 
reason to believe in his entire sincerity — whatever 
we may think of his consistency. 

Only two w^orks are needed to gain an adequate 
knowledge of the man ; these are, his life and corre- 
spondence, edited by his son, the Rev. Charles 
Cuthbert Southey, and selections from his letters, 
edited by his son-in-law, J. W. Warter. Southey's 
letters are among the best in the language, and 
give a clear view of the mind and character of the 
writer. They are frank "and simple ; full of kindly 
feeling, good sense, and good nonsense — the clever 
nonsense of a wise man. His correspondence with 
Caroline Bowles, recently published, edited by 
Edward Dowden, confirms the impressions made 



214 ROBERT sour HEY. 

by the former collections of his letters. The follow- 
ing works are also worthy of attention : — De 
Quincey's "Literary Reminiscences;" H. F. Chor- 
ley's ''Autobiography ; " Thomas Carlyle's " Rem- 
iniscences ; " H. C. Robinson's "Diary;" William 
Hazlitt's " Spirit of the Age ; " Joseph Cottle's 
"Reminiscences of Coleridge and Southey ;" T. J. 
Hogg's "Life of Shelley;" S. C. Hall's "Book of 
Memories ; " Sara Coleridge's " Memoirs and Let- 
ters ; " R. P. Gillies's " Memoirs of a Literary 
Veteran;" James Hogg's " Reminiscences of For- 
mer Days ; " Edward Dowden's volume in the 
"English Men of Letters" series; and the "Auto- 
biography" of Mrs. Anna Eliza Bray, edited by 
John A. Kempe. This latter work contains a num- 
ber of interesting and characteristic letters from 
Southey. 



LEADING EVENTS OF SOUTHEY' S LIFE. 

1774. Born, August 12th, in Bristol. 

1788. — (Aged 14.) A scholar at Westminster. 

1792. — (Aged 18.) Expelled from Westminster School, for print- 
ing an article upon flogging. 

1793. — (Aged 19.) Enters Oxford University. 

1794. — (Aged 20.) Studies medicine for a short time. Publishes 
a volume of poems, the joint M^ork of himself 
and Robert Lovell. Leaves Oxford. Plans a 
Pantisocracy, with Coleridge and others. 

1795. — (Aged 21.) Marries Miss Edith Fricker, privately. Goes 
to Lisbon with his uncle. Publishes "Joan of 
Arc." 

1796. — (Aged 22.) Returns to England, and lives with his wife in 
Bristol. 

1797. — (Aged 23.) Resides in London, in order to study law. 



ROBERT SOUTIIEY. 21 5 

1800. — (Aged 26.) Goes to Lisbon with his wife. 

1801. — (Aged 27.) Returns to England. Pubhshes **Thalaba." 

Becomes private secretary to the Irish Lord 

Chancellor of the Exchequer. 
1802. — (Aged 28.) Resigns his position as Secretary. Lives at 

Bristol with his wife. 
1803. — (Aged 29.) Takes his wife to Greta Hall, at Keswick.^ 
1805. — (Aged 31.) Publishes "Madoc." 
1807. — (Aged 33.) Receives a pension of two hundred pounds per 

annum. 
1809.— (Aged 35.) Contributes to the first numbers of "The 

Quarterly Review." 
1810. — (Aged 36.) Publishes the "Curse of Kehama," and the 

first volume of " The History of Brazil." 
1813. — (Aged 39.) Becomes Poet Laureate. Publishes "The 

Life of Nelson." 
1814. — (Aged 40.) Publishes "Roderick." 
1817. — (Aged 43.) "Wat Tyler," a revolutionary sketch, written 

in Southey's youth, is published, without his 

consent. 
1820.— (Aged 46.) Publishes " The Life of Wesley." 
1824.— (Aged 50.) Publishes "The Book of the Church." 
1826. — (Aged 52.) Elected to Parliament, but declines to serve. 
1829, — (Aged 55.) Publishes "Colloquies." 
1834.— (Aged 60.) Publishes "The Doctor." 
1835.— (Aged 61.) Publishes "The Life of Cowper." Declines a 

baronetcy, offered to him by Sir Robert Peel. 

Receives an addition of 300/. per annum to his 

pension. 
1837. — (Aged 63.) His wife dies. 
1839. — (Aged 65.) Marries Miss Catherine Bowles. 
1843. — (68 years, 7 months.) Dies, March 21st 

' This continued to be Southey's residence throughout the rest 
of his life. 



ROBERT SOUTHEY. 



ALMOST the only records of Southey's boyhood 
are contained in some autobiographical let- 
ters, which he wrote to his friend John May, and 
which are inserted in C. C. Southey's life of Robert 
Southey/ Much of his time in childhood was 
passed with an eccentric maiden aunt, at Bath, who 
kept him quiet all day, and took him to the theatre 
almost every evening. "I had little propensity," 
he says, *'to any boyish sports, and less expertness 
in them. But if I was unapt at ordinary sports, a 
botanist or an entomologist would have found me 
a willing pupil in those years. I knew every 
variety of grass blossom that the fields produced, 
and in what situations to look for each." As to 
his reading, he tells us, " I went through Beaumont 
and Fletcher before I was. eight years old : circum- 
stances enable me to recollect the time accurately." 
And this was in addition to Shakespeare. Before 
he was fourteen he had read, according to his own 
account, translations of Tasso and Ariosto, Mickle's 
translation of the " Lusiad, " Pope's " Homer," 
Spenser's "Faery Queen," Sydney's "Arcadia," the 



' Southey (Rev. Charles Cuthbert). 
of Robert Southey. 6 vols. London, 



Life and Correspondence 
[850. 



Boyhood 
and youth. 



2l8 



ROBERT S OUT HEY. 



Boyhood 
and youth. 



Personal 
aj>pearance. 



works of Josephus, and many tales and romances, 
and had made several attempts to compose dramas 
and epics. 

He had some trouble in gaining admittance at 
Oxford, for he had been expelled from Westminster, 
his offence having been the publication of a satiri- 
cal attack upon flogging. He remained at Oxford 
less than two years, scandalizing the authorities and 
the great body of his fellow-students — the one, by 
his openly expressed republicanism, the other, by 
the decency and regularity of his life. In later 
years he said that he learnt nothing at Oxford but 
a little rowing and swimming. His son, C. C. 
Southey says, " He was, indeed, but little disposed 
to pay much deference either to the discipline or the 
etiquette of the college. It was usual for all the 
members to have their hair regularly dressed and 
powdered according to the prevailing fashion, and 
the college barber waited upon the freshmen as a 
matter of course. My father, however, peremp- 
torily refused to put himself under his hands ; and 
I well remember his speaking of the astonishment 
depicted in the man's face, and of his earnest re- 
monstrances on the impropriety he was going to 
commit in entering the dining-hall with his long 
hair, which curled beautifully, in its primitive state. 
A little surprise was manifested at first, but the ex- 
ample was quickly followed by others." 

Southey was, in person, somewhat taller than 
Wordsworth, being about five feet eleven in height, 
or a trifle more, whilst Wordsworth was about five 
feet ten ; and, partly from having slender limbs^ 



ROBERT SOUTH EY. 



219 



partly from being more symmetrically formed 
about the shoulders than Wordsworth, he struck one 
as a better and lighter figure, to the effect of which 
his dress contributed ; for he wore pretty constantly 
a short jacket and pantaloons, and had much the air 
of a Tyrolese mountaineer. . . . His hair was 
black, and yet his complexion was fair ; his eyes I 
believe to be hazel and large ; but I will not vouch 
for that fact ; his nose aquiline ; and he has a re- 
markable habit of looking up into the air, as if 
looking at abstractions. The expression of his face 
was that of a very acute and an aspiring man. So 
far, it was even noble, as it conveyed a feeling of a 
serene and gentle pride, habitually familiar with 
elevating subjects of contemplation. And yet it 
was impossible that this pride could have been 
offensive to any body, chastened as it was by the 
most unaffected modesty. — Thomas DeQuincey 
(" Literary Reminiscences ").^ 

His forehead was very broad ; his height was five 
feet eleven inches ; his complexion rather dark, the 
eyebrows large and arched, the eye well shaped 
and dark brown, the mouth somewhat prominent, 
muscular, and very variously expressive, the chin 
small in proportion to the upper features of his 
face. He always, while in Keswick, wore a cap in 
his walks, and partly from habit, partly from the 
make of his head and shoulders, we thought he 
never looked well or like himself in a hat. He was 
of a very spare frame, but of great activity, and not 



' DeQuincey (Thomas). Literary Reminiscences. 
i6mo. Ticknor & Fields, Boston, 185 1. 



2 vols. 



Personal 
aj>pearance. 



220 



ROBERT SOUTHEY. 



Personal 
appearatue. 



showing any evidence of a weak constitution. My 
father's countenance, like his character, seems to 
have softened down from a certain wildness of ex- 
pression to a more sober and thoughtful cast ; and 
many thought him a handsomer man in age than in 
youth ; his eye retaining always its brilliancy, and 
his countenance its play of expression. Though 
he did not continue to let his hair hang down 
on his shoulders according to the whim of his 
youthful days, yet he always wore a greater quan- 
tity than is usual ; and once, on his arrival in town, 
Chantrey's first greetings to him were accompanied 
with an injunction to go and get his hair cut. 
When I first remember it, it was turning from a rich 
brown to the steel shade, whence it rapidly became 
almost snowy white, losing none of its remarkable 
thickness, and clustering in abundant curls over his 
massive brow. — C. C. Southey (" Life of Southey "). 

He is in person above the middle size, but slender, 
with something of the stoop and listless air of an 
habitual student. A retiring forehead, shaded in 
part by thick curled hair, already gray ; strongly 
marked arching eyebrows ; uncommonly full, dark 
eyes, blue I incline to think ; a thin but very promi- 
nent nose ; a mouth large and eloquent, and a 
retreating but well-defined chin. — E. D. Griffin 
(" Remains ").^ 

I never met any literary man who so thoroughly 
answered my expectations as Southey. His face is 



^ Griffin (Rev. Edmund Dorr). Remains compiled by Francis 
Griffin. 2 vols. i2mo. New York, 1831. 



ROBERT S OUT HEY. 



221 



at once shrewd, thoughtful, and quick, if not irrita- 
ble, in its expression ; a singular deficiency of space 
in its lower portion, but no deficiency of feature or 
expression ; his manner cold, but still ; in conversa- 
tion, bland and gentle, and not nearly so dogmatic 
as his writings would lead one to imagine. — H. F. 
Chorley (" Autobiography "). 

In 1836, Southey visited Mr. and Mrs. Bray. 
Mrs. Anna Eliza Bray, in her autobiography,^ gives 
the following description, written by her husband, 
of Southey's appearance: — "In person he is tall 
and thin. His nose is prominent, but neither 
Roman nor aquiline ; beginning, as it w^ere with 
the former, and ending with the latter. His hair is 
so gray as to be almost white ; and so thick and 
curling, that one of our servants thought he w^ore a 
wig. In this his eyebrows form a striking contrast, 
being dark, and the more conspicuous from their 
size. His eyes, also, are dark and prominent, with 
a certain opposition of expression ; sometimes 
flashing with energy, but more frequently melting 
with softness." 

He w^as the very beau ideal of a poet — singularly 
impressive, tall, somewhat slight, slow in his move- 
ments, and very dignified in manner, with the eye 
of a hawk, and with sharp features, and an aquiline 
nose, that carried the similitude somewhat further. 
His forehead was broad and high, his eyebrows 
dark, his hair profuse and long. ... I can see 



^ Bray (Anna Eliza). Autobiography. 
Kempe. 8vo. London, 1884. 



indited by John A. 



Personal 
ajipearajtce^ 



222 



ROBERT SOUTHEY. 



Persotial 
ippcarance. 



vividly, even now, his graceful and winning smile. 
To the commonest observer he was obviously a 
man who had lived more with books than men, 
whose converse had chiefly been with " the mighty 
minds of old." — S. C. Hall (" Book of Memories"). 

Southey was a man towards well up in the fifties ;^ 
hair gray, not yet hoary, well setting off his fine, 
clear brown complexion ; head and face both small- 
ish, as indeed the figure was while seated ; features 
finely cut ; eyes, brow, mouth, good in their kind — 
expressive all, and even vehemently so, but beto- 
kening rather keenness than depth either of intellect 
or character ; a serious, human, honest, but sharp, 
almost fierce-looking, thin man, with very much of 
the militant in his aspect — in the eyes especially 
was a visible mixture of sorrow and of anger, or of 
angry contempt, as if his indignant fight with the 
world had not yet ended in victory, but also that it 
never should in defeat. A man you were willing to 
hear speak. ... I recollect my astonishment 
when Southey at last completely pose from his 
chair to shake hands. He had only half risen and 
nodded on my'coming in ; and all along I had 
counted him a lean little man ; but now he shot 
suddenly aloft into a lean tall one, all legs, in shape 
and stature like a pair of tongs, which peculiarity 
my surprise doubtless exaggerated to me, but only 
made it the more notable and entertaining. — 
Thomas Carlyle (^' Reminiscences").^ 



^ In 1836 or '37. 

' Carlyle (Thomas). Reminiscences. 

London and New York, 1881. 



Edited by J. A. Fronde. 



ROBERT SOUTHRY. 



223 



There was ... an habitual delicacy in his 
conversation, evidencing that cheerfulness and wit 
might exist without ribaldry, grossness, or profana- 
tion. He neither violated decorum himself, nor 
tolerated it in others. I have been present when a 
trespasser of the looser class has received a rebuke, 
I might say a castigation, well deserved, and not 
readily forgotten. His abhorrence also of injustice, 
or unw^orthy conduct, in its diversified shapes, had 
all the decision of a Roman censor ; while this 
apparent austerity was associated, w^hen in the 
society he liked, with so bland and playful a spirit, 
that it abolished all constraint, and rendered him 
one of the most agreeable, as well as the most intel- 
ligent of companions. — Joseph Cottle ('' Reminis- 
cences of Coleridge and Southey ").' 

Mr. Southey's conversation has a little resemblance 
to a commonplace book ; his habitual deportment 
to a piece of clock-work. He is not remarkable 
either as a reasoner or an observer ; but he is 
quick, unaffected, replete with anecdote, various 
and retentive in his reading, and exceedingly happy 
in his play upon words. . . . We have chiefly 
seen Mr. Southey in company where few people 
appear to advantage, we mean in that of Mr. Cole- 
ridge. He has not certainly the same range of 
speculation, nor the same flow of sounding words, 
but he makes up by the details of knowledge, and 
by a scrupulous correctness of statement for what 



' Cottle (Joseph). Reminiscences of Samuel Taylor Coleridge 
and Robert Southey. Crown 8vo. London, 1847. 



Conversa- 
tio7i. 



224 



ROBERT SOUTHEY. 



Conversa- 
tio?i. 



he wants of originality of thought, or impetuous 
declamation. The tones of Mr. Coleridge's voice 
are eloquence ; those of Mr. Southey are meagre, 
shrill, and dry. Mr. Coleridge's forte is conversa- 
tion, and he is conscious of this ; Mr. Southey 
evidently considers writing his stronghold, and if 
gravelled in an argument, or at a loss for an ex- 
planation, refers to something he has written on 
the subject, or brings out his portfolio, doubled 
down in dog-ears, in confirmation of some fact. — 
W. Hazlitt (•' Spirit of the Age ").' 

He converses very rapidly, both in language and 
ideas. Indeed, it is somewhat difficult to keep pace 
with his mind, in its transition from one idea to 
another. . . . He asserts with great energy and 
decision ; but this seems to arise, not from a dispo- 
sition to dogmatize, but from a natural impetuosity 
and perspicacity of mind. He uses no gesticulation ; 
but his features and his person are instinct with ani- 
mation, and alive with nervous action. He fre- 
quently walks up and down the room, as if to 
expend a superabundant quantity of excitement. — 
E. D. Griffin ("Remains"). 

In his conversation Southey was perfectly easy 
and unpretending, never shunning to speak his real 
sentiments of men, or of principles, either of a 
public or a private nature. And though very caustic 
sometimes, and even severe in his remarks, yet 



^ Hazlitt (William). The Spirit of the Age. i6ino. London, 
1825. 



ROBERT SOUTHEY. 



225 



generally far more inclining to the good-natured in 
his opinions and in his discourse. — Anna Eliza 
Bray ("Autobiography"). 

The characteristics of his manner, as of his ap- 
pearance, were lightness and strength, an easy and 
happy composure as the accustomed mood, with 
much mobility at the same time, so that he could 
be readily excited into any degree of animation in 
discourse, speaking, if the subject moved him much, 
with extraordinary fire and force, though always in 
light, laconic sentences. When so moved, the 
fingers of his righi hand often rested against his 
mouth and quivered through nervous susceptibility. 
But, excitable as he was in conversation, he was 
never angry or irritable ; nor can there be any 
greater mistake concerning him than that into 
which some persons have fallen when they have in- 
ferred, from the fiery vehemence with which he 
could give utterance to moral anger in verse or 
prose, that he was personally ill-tempered or irasci- 
ble. He was, in truth, a man whom it was hardly 
possible to quarrel with or offend personally and 
face to face. . . . He said of himself that he 
was tolerant of persons, though intolerant of opin- 
ions . . . 

He was averse from argumentation, and would 
commonly quit a subject when it was passing into 
that shape, with a quiet and good-humored indica- 
tion of the view in which he rested. He talked 
most and with most interest about books and about 
public affairs ; less, indeed hardly at all, about the 
characters and .qualities of men in private life. 
L-iS 



Conversa- 
tio/t. 



226 



ROBERT SOUTHEY. 



Social 
traits. 



— Sir Henry Taylor (Quoted in C. C. Southey's 
"Life of Southey"). 

The point in which Southey's manner failed the 
most in conciliating regard, was, in all which 
related to the external expressions of friendliness. 
No man coidd be more sincerely hospitable — no 
man more essentially disposed to give up even his 
time (the possession which he most valued) to the 
service of his friends. But there was an air of re- 
serve and distance about him— the reserve of a 
lofty, self-respecting mind, but, perhaps, a little too 
freezing — in his treatment of aU persons who were 
not among the coi^ps of his ancient fireside friends. 
— Thomas DeQuincey (" Literary Reminiscences "). 

In the society of strangers or of acquaintances he 
seemed to take more interest in the subjects spoken 
of than in the persons present, his manner being 
that of natural courtesy and general benevolence 
without distinction of individuals. Had there been 
some tincture of social vanity in him, perhaps he 
would have been brought into closer relations with 
those whom he met in society ; but, though in- 
variably kind and careful of their feelings, he was 
indifferent to the manner in which they regarded 
him, or (as the phrase is) to his effect in society ; 
and they might perhaps be conscious that the kind- 
ness they received was what flowed naturally and 
inevitably to all, that they had nothing to give in 
return which was of value to him, and that no indi- 
vidual relations were established. — Sir Henry Tay- 
lor (quoted in C. C. Southey's " Life of Southey"). 



ROBERT S OUT HEY. 



227 



He concealed . . . beneath a reserved man- 
ner, a most acutely sensitive mind, and a warmth and 
kindliness of feeling which was only understood by 
few, indeed, perhaps, not thoroughly by any. . . . 
On one particular point I remember his often re- 
gretting his constitutional bashfulness and reserve ; 
and that was, because, added to his retired life and 
the nature of his pursuits, it prevented him from 
knowing anything of the persons among whom he 
lived. . . . With those persons who were occa- 
sionally employed about the house, he was most 
familiarly friendly, and these regarded him with a 
degree of affectionate reverence that could not be 
surpassed. — C. C. Southey (" Life of R. Southey "). 

Your feelings go naked ; I cover mine with a 
bear-skin : I will not say tliat you harden yours by 
your mode, but I am sure that mine are the warmer 
for their clothing. . . . It is possible, or prob- 
able, that I err as much as you in an opposite ex- 
treme, and may make enemies where you would 
make friends. — Robert Southey (Letter to S. T. 
Coleridge, 1804). 

No man has ever written more faithfully from his 
heart ; but my manners have not the same habitual 
unreserve as my pen. A disgust at the professions 
of friendship, and feeling, and sentiment in those 
who have neither the one nor the other, has, per- 
haps, insensibly led me to an opposite extreme ; 
and in wishing rather esse quam videri, I may some- 
times have appeared what I am not. — Robert 
Southey (Letter to C. H. Townshend, 1816). 



Sky, but 
kindly. 



His otvn 
oJ>i7iuni 0/ 
his sociil 
character. 



228 



ROBERT S OUT HEY. 



His 07vn 
opinion of 

his social 
character. 



Speech- 
ma kins:. 



His home 

and his 

books. 



Through a constitutional bashfulness, which the 
publicity of authorship has not overcome, and 
through the sort of left-handed management (I do 
not mean sinister) which that bashfulness occasions, 
I have repeatedly appeared neglectful of others, 
and have really been so of my own interests. 
Upon the score of such neglect, no man living has 
more cause for reproach than I have. — Robert 
SouTHEY (Letter to J. Rickman, 1827). 

I never made a speech since I was a school-boy, 
and I am very certain that I never had any talent 
for speaking. Had I gone to the bar, my intent was 
to have spoken ahvays as briefly and perspicuously 
as possible. ... I have none of that readiness 
which is required for public life, or even which is 
looked for among diners out. — Robert Southey 
(Letter to Sir H. Taylor, 1825). 

Southey told me that he would as lief sink 
through the earth as make a speech in public. — R. 
Shelton Mackenzie ('' Memoir of Wilson"). 

The house which for so many years w^as his resi- 
dence at Keswick, though well situated both for 
convenience and for beauty of prospect, was unat- 
tractive in external appearance. . . . Having 
originally been two houses, afterward thrown to- 
gether, it consisted of a good many small rooms, con- 
nected by long passages, all of w^hich, with great 
ingenuity, he made available for holding books, 
with which, indeed, the house was lined from top to 
bottom. His own sitting-room, which was the 



ROBERT SOUTHEY. 



229 



largest in the house, was filled with the handsomest 
of them, arranged with much taste, according to his 
own fashion, with due regard to size, color, and con- 
dition ; and he used to contemplate these, his care- 
fully accumulated and much-prized treasures, wuth 
even more pleasure and pride than the greatest con- 
noisseur his finest specimens of the old masters. — 
C. C. SouTHEY (" Life of R. Southey "). 

He was a most thoroughly domestic man, in that 
his whole pleasure and happiness was centred in 
his home ; but yet, from the course of his pursuits, 
his family necessarily saw but little of him. . . . 
Ever}^ day, every hour had its allotted employment ; 
always were there engagements to publishers im- 
peratively requiring punctual fulfilment ; always 
the current expenses of a large household to take 
anxious thoughts for. ..." My ways," he used 
to say, "are as broad as the king's high road, and 
my means lie in an inkstand." Yet, notw^ithstand- 
ing the value which every moment of his time thus 
necessarily bore, unlike most literary men, he was 
never ruffled in the slightest degree by the inter- 
ruptions of his family, even on the most trivial 
occasions ; the book or the pen was ever laid down 
with a smile, and he was ready to answer any ques- 
tion, or to enter with youthful readiness into any 
temporary topic of amusement or interest. — C. C. 
Southey ("Life of R. Southey"). 

Southey's letters bear witness to his domestic na- 
ture ; the following passages have been selected 
from many which are equally suggestive : 



His home 
and his 
books. 



DoJJtes- 
ticity. 



230 



2^ O BERT SOUTHEY. 



A home- * 
loving tnan. 



Methodical 
habits. 



'•' Oh dear ; oh dear ! there is such a coaifort in 
one's old coat and old shoes, one's own chair and 
own fireside, one's own writing-desk and own 
library — with a little girl climbing up to my neck, 
and saying, ' Don't go to London, papa — you must 
stay with Edith ; ' and a little boy, whom I have 
taught to speak the language of cats, dogs, cuckoos, 
and jackasses, etc., before he can articulate a word 
of his own ; — there is such a comfort in all these 
things, that transportation to London for four or five 
weeks seems a heavier punishment than any sins of 
mine deserve." 

" Here then I am, nothing the worse for having 
been wheeled over fifteen hu ndred miles in the course 
of fifteen weeks. ... I have taken again to my 
old coat and old shoes ; dine at the reasonable hour 
of four, enjoy as I used to do the wholesome indul- 
gence of a nap after dinner, drink tea at six, sup at 
half past nine, spend an hour over a sober folio 
and a glass of black currant rum with warm water 
and sugar, and then to bed. Days seemed like 
weeks while I was away, . . . and now that I 
am settling to my w^onted round of occupations, the 
week passes like a day." 

In associating with Southey, not only was it nec- 
essary to salvation to refrain from touching his 
books, but various rites, ceremonies, and usages 
must be rigidly observed. At certain appointed 
hours only was he open to conversation ; at the 
seasons w^hich had been predestined from all eternity 
for holding intercourse with his friends. Every 



ROBERT SOUTHEY. 



231 



hour of the day had its commission — every half hour 
was assigned to its own peculiar, undeviating func- 
tion. The indefatigable student gave a detailed ac- 
count of his most painstaking life, every moment of j 
which was fully employed and strictly prearranged, 
to a certain literary Quaker lady. 

'' I rise at five throughout the year ; from six till 
eight I read Spanish ; then French for one hour ; 
Portuguese, next, for half an hour, — my watch lying 
on the table ; I give two hours to poetry ; I write 
prose for two hours ; I translate so long ; I make 
extracts so long," and so of the rest until the poor 
fellow had fairly fagged himself into his bed again. 
" iVnd, pray, when dost thou think, friend ? " she 
asked, drily, to the great discomfiture of the future 
Laureate.— T. J. Hogg (''Life of Shelley"). 

His course of life was the most regular and 
simple possible. . . . When it is said that break- 
fast was at nine, after a little reading, dinner at 
four, tea at six, supper at half past nine, and the 
intervals filled up with reading and writing, except 
that he regularly walked between two and four, and 
took a short sleep before tea, the outline of his day 
during those long seasons when he was in full work 
will have been given. After supper, when the busi- 
ness of the day seemed to be over, though he gener- 
ally took a book, he remained with his family, and 
was open to enter into conversation, to amuse and to 
be amused. — C. C. Southey (" Life of R. Southey "). 

Last night I began the Preface (to Specimens of 
English Poets) — huzza ! And now, Grosvenor, let 



Methodical 
habits. 



Regularity 

of his 

routine. 



232 



ROBERT SOUTHEY. 



Methods of 
•work. 



me tell you what I have to do. I am writing — i. The 
History of Portugal ; 2. The Chronicle of the Cid ; 
3. The Curse of Kehama ; 4. Espriella' s Letters. Look 
you, all these / am writing. . . . By way of in- 
terlude comes in this preface. Don't swear, and 
bid me do one thing at a time. I tell you I can't af- 
ford to do one thing at a time — no, nor two neither ; 
and it is only by doing many things that I contrive 
to do so much : for I cannot work long together at 
anything without hurting myself, and so I do every- 
thing by heats ; then, by the time I am tired of one, 
my inclination for another is come round. — Robert 
SouTHEY (letter to Grosvenor Bedford). 

His long and valuable works advanced slowly, be- 
cause he always had different tasks on hand, and like 
a thorough-bred man of business, could at any time 
turn from one to another ; but they advanced unre- 
mittingly ; they were not scrawled and patched up 
invitd Minerva^ careless of all but the citizen's only 
object, to obtain immediate pelf ; but they were fin- 
ished so as to gain the author's approbation in the 
first place. Among his minor peculiarities I cannot 
but remember how in his unequalled calligraphy, he 
revived the accomplishment of monastic scribes in 
the middle ages, and how in divers instances he 
completed a long MS., bound it handsomely, and 
kept it for years on his shelves, before he thought 
of publication. Labor ipsa vohiptas erat, even without 
one particle of pecuniary gain. — R. P. Gillies 
C' Memoirs of a Literary Veteran ").^ 

^ Gillies (Robert Pearce). Memoirs of a Literary Veteran. 
3 vols., i2mo. London, 1854. 



ROBERT SOUTHEY 



233 



With respect to his mode of acquiring and arrang- 
ing the contents of a book, it was somewhat pe- 
culiar. He was as rapid a reader as could be con- 
ceived, having the power of perceiving by a glance 
down the page whether it contained anything which 
he was likely to make use of — a slip of paper lay on 
his desk, and was used as a marker, and with a 
slight pencilled S he would note the passage, put a 
reference on the paper, with some brief note of the 
subject, which he could transfer to his note-book, 
and in the course of a few hours he had classified 
and arranged everything in the work w^hich it was 
likely he w^ould ever want. — C. C. Southey ('' Life 
of R. Southey "). 

When George Ticknor met Southey in 18 19, he 
found that his light reading, after supper, was in 
the fifty-three folio volumes of the " Acta Sancto- 
rum." In 1823 Southey wrote to G. S. Bedford, as 
follows : " To give you some notion of my hetero- 
geneous reading, I am at this time regularly going 
through Shakespeare, Mosheim's Ecclesiastical His- 
tory, Rabelais, Barrow, and Aitzema, a Dutch histo- 
rian of the seventeenth century, in eleven huge full 
folios. The Dutchman I take after supper, with my 
punch." He frequently mentions in his letters the 
habit which he had acquired of reading as he 
walked. 

Having had neither new coat nor hat since the 
Edithling was born, you may suppose I w^as in want 
of both ; so at Edinburgh I was to rig myself, and, 
moreover, lay in new boots and pantaloons. How- 



Manner of 
reading. 



An 0V111170- 
rotis reader. 



Books 

rather than 

clothes. 



234 



ROBERT S OUT HEY. 



Books 

rather than 

clothes. 



Wholly ab- 
sorbed hi 
books. 



Life out-of- 
doors. 



belt, on considering the really respectable appear- 
ance which my old ones made for a traveller, and 
considering, moreover, that as learning was better 
than house or land, it certainly must be much 
better than fine clothes, I laid out all my money in 
books, and came home to wear out my old clothes in 
the winter. — Robert Southey (letter to L. Southey, 
1805). 

J^anuary i2>th^ 1839. I walked out with Words- 
worth. . . . We talked of Southey. Words- 
worth spoke of him with great feeling and affection. 
He said, " It is painful to see how completely dead 
Southey is become to all but books. He is amiable 
and obliging, but when he gets away from his 
books he seems restless, and as if out of his ele- 
ment. I therefore hardly see him for years to- 
gether." Now all this I had myself observed. 
Rogers also had noticed it.' — Henry Crabb Rob- 
inson ("Diary "). 

His greatest relaxation was in a mountain excur- 
sion or a picnic by the side of one of the lakes, 
tarns, or streams ; and these parties, of which he 
was the life and soul, will long live in the recollec- 
tions of those who shared them. An excellent 
pedestrian (thinking little of a v/alk of twenty-five 
miles when upward of sixty), he usually headed the 
"infantry" on these occasions, looking on those 
gentlemen as idle mortals who indulged in the lux- 



^ It must be remembered that when this observation was made, 
in 1839, Southey was nearing the close of his life, a worn-out man, 
whose faculties were already seriously impaired. 



ROBERT SOUTHEY. 



235 



ury of a mountain pony. — C. C. Southey (" Life of 
R. Southey "). 

In Southey's fifty -first year he writes to Rickman, 
" I overcome the dislike of solitary walking, and 
every day, unless it be a settled rain, walk long 
enough, and far, and fast enough, to require the 
wholesome process of rubbing down on my return." 
In his fifty-sixth year he tells Allan Cunningham, '' I 
am put to the daily expense of two hours' walking, 
. . . and when the weather will allow me to take 
a book in my hand, it is not altogether lost time. I 
can read small print at the pace of three miles an 
hour ; and when I have read enough to chew the 
cud upon, then in goes the pocket volume, and I add 
a mile an hour to my speed." In his sixtieth year 
he writes to Bedford, " The day before yesterday I 
commanded a cart party to Honister Crag, and 
walked the whole way myself, twenty-one and a half 
miles by Edward Hill's pedometer, without difficulty 
or fatigue." 

Southey wrote to two old friends, as follows : — 
" Oh Grosvenor, is it not a pity that two men who 
love nonsense so cordially and naturally and bond- 
fidically as you and I, should be three hundred miles 
asunder ? For my part, I insist upon it that there is 
no sense so good as your honest, genuine nonsense." 

'' I am quite as noisy as I ever was, and should 
take as much delight as ever in showering stones 
through the hole of the staircase against your room 
door, and hearing with what hearty good earnest 



Life out-of- 
doors. 



Playful- 
ness. 



2^6 



ROBERT SOUTHEY. 



Playful- 
ness. 



Fondness 
/or cats. 



' you fool ' was vociferated in indignation against 
me in return. Oh, dear Lightfoot what a blessing 
it is to have a boy's heart ! It is as great a blessing 
in carrying one through this world, as to have a 
child's spirit will be in fitting us for the next." 

My father's fondness for cats has been occasion- 
ally shown by allusions in his letters, and in ''The 
Doctor " is inserted an amusing memorial of the 
various cats which at different times w^ere in- 
mates of Greta Hall. He rejoiced in bestowing 
upon them the strangest appellations ; and it was 
not a little amusing to see a kitten answer to the 
name of some Italian singer or Indian chief, or hero 
of a German fairy tale, and often names and titles 
were heaped one upon another, till the possessor, 
unconscious of tlie honor conveyed, used to " set 
up his eyes and look " in wonderment. Mr. Bedford 
had an equal liking for the feline race, and occasional 
notices of their favorites therefore passed between 
them, of which the following records the death of 
one of the greatest : — 

" Alas ! Grosvenor, this day poor old Rumpel w^as 
found dead, after as long and happy a life as cat 
could wish for, if cats form wishes on that subject. 

" His full titles were : 

" The Most Noble the Archduke Rumpelstiltzchen, 
Marquis Macbum, Earl Tomlemagne, Baron Rati- 
cide, Waowhler, and Skraatch. 

" There should be a court mourning in Catland, 
and if the Dragon' wear a black ribbon round his 



^ A cat of Mr. Bedford's. 



ROBERT S OUT HEY. 



237 



neck, or a band of crape a la militaire round one of 
his fore paws, it will be but a becoming mark of 
respect. ... I believe we are each and all, 
servants included, more sorry for his loss, or rather, 
more affected by it, than any of us would like to 
confess." — C. C. Southey (''Life of R. Southey "). 

Southey's sensitiveness I had noticed on the first 
occasion as one of his characteristic qualities, but 
was nothing like aware of the extent of it till our 
next meeting. This was a few evenings afterwards, 
Taylor giving some dinner, or party, in honor of his 
guest ; if dinner, I was not at that, but must have 
undertaken for the evening sequel, as less incom- 
modious to me, less unwholesome more especially. 
I remember entering, in the same house, but up 
stairs this time, a pleasant little drawing-room, in 
which, in well lighted, secure enough condition, sat 
Southey in full dress, silently reclining, and as yet 
no other company. We saluted suitably ; touched 
ditto on the vague initiatory points ; and were still 
there, when, by way of coming closer, I asked 
mildly, with no appearance of special interest, but 
with more than I really felt, " Do you know De 
Quincey ? " (the opium-eater whom I knew to have 
lived in Cumberland as his neighbor). "Yes, sir," 
said Southey, with extraordinary animosity, " and if 
you have opportunity, I'll thank you to tell him he 
is one of the greatest scoundrels living! " I laughed 
lightly, said I had myself little acquaintance with 
the man, and could not wish to recommend myself 
by that message. Southey's face, as I looked at it, 
was become of slate-color, the eyes glancing, the 



Fondness 
for cats. 



N'er^'ous 
excitability. 



2ZS 



ROBERT SOUTHEY. 



Nervous ex- 
citability. 



attitude rigid, the figure altogether a picture of 
Rhadamanthine rage — that is, rage conscious to it- 
self of being just. He doubtless felt I would expect 
some explanation from him. " I have told Hartley 
Coleridge," said he, "that he ought to take a strong 
cudgel, proceed straight to Edinburgh, and give 
De Quincey, publicly in the streets there, a sound 
beating, as a calumniator, cowardly spy, traitor, 
base betrayer of the hospitable social hearth, for one 
thing." ^ . . . 

In a few minutes we let the topic drop, I helping 
what I could, and he seemed to feel as if he had 
done a little w^rong, and was bound to show himself 
more than usually amicable and social, especially 
with me, for the rest of the evening, which he did in 
effect, though I quite forget the details, only that I 
had a good deal of talk with him, in the circle of 
the others, and had again more than once to notice 
the singular readiness of the blushes ; amiable red 
blush, beautiful like a young girl's, when you 
touched genially the pleasant theme, and serpent- 
like flash of blue or black blush (this far, very far 
the rarer kind, though it did recur too) when you 
struck upon the opposite. All details of the even- 
ing, except that primary one, are clean gone ; but 
the effect was interesting, pleasantly stimulating, 
and surprising. I said to myself, " How has this 
man contrived, with such a nervous system, to keep 
alive for near sixty years ? Now blushing under his 
gray hairs, rosy like a maiden of fifteen ; now slaty 



1 This outburst was in consequence of De Quincey's having pub- 
lished some personal reminiscences of Coleridge and others, which 
were not altogether flattering. 



ROBERT S OUT HEY. 



239 



almost, like a rattlesnake or fiery serpent ? How 
has he not been torn to pieces long since, under 
such furious pulling this way and that ? He must 
have somewhere a great deal of methodic virtue in 
him ; I suppose, too, his heart is thoroughly hon- 
est, which helps considerably." — Thomas Carlyle 
(" Reminiscences "). 

Once I saw in him a strong expression of indig- 
nation ; it was when speaking of the unjustifiable 
attack that had been made upon him by Lord Byron. 
He was at the moment standing with his back to the 
fire, and I was near him. I saw a great change in 
him as he spoke ; the nostrils . . . seemed to 
dilate, and there was a grandeur, a dignity about 
the whole countenance which was very striking. I 
saw that, although so gentle in ordinary moods, 
Southey could be awful, when strongly and justly 
influenced by a passion of indignation. — Anna Eliza 
Bray (" Autobiography "). 

The truth is, that though some persons, whose 
knowledge of me is skin-deep, suppose I have no 
nerves, because I have great self-control as far as 
regards the surface, if it were not for great self- 
management, and what may be called a strict intel- 
lectual regimen, I should very soon be in a deplora- 
ble state of what is called nervous disease, and this 
would have been the case any time during the last 
twenty years. — Robert Southey (Letter to G. S. 
Bedford, 181 8). 

I reckoned him (with those blue blushes and those 



Nervous ex' 
citability. 



Self- 
control. 



240 



ROBERT sour HEY. 



Sdf- 
coiitrol. 



Self- 
conscious- 
ness. 



red) to be the perhaps excitablest of all men, and 
that a deep mute motion of conscience had spoken 
to him, " You are capable of running mad, if you 
don't take care. Acquire habitudes; stick firm as 
adamant to them at all times, and work — continually 
work ! " — Thomas Carlyle (" Reminiscences "). 

An illustrative anecdote was told me by the sex- 
ton of Crosthwaite Church, who, however, had little 
to say of the poet, except that he seldom saw him 
smile. He met him often in his walks, but he 
seemed pensive, full of thought, and looked as if 
his life was elsewhere than on earth. The anecdote 
is this. Southey had a great dislike to be *' looked 
at;" and although very regular in his attendance 
at church, he would stay away when he knew there 
were many tourists in the neighborhood. One Sun- 
day, two strangers who had a great desire to see the 
poet besought the sexton to point him out to them. 
The sexton, knowing that this must be done se- 
cretly, said, " I will take you up the aisle, and, in 
passing, touch the pew in which he sits." He did 
so, and no doubt the strangers had "a good stare." 
A few days after, the sexton met Southey in the 
street of Keswick. The poet looked somewhat 
sternly at him, said, " Dont do it again,'" and passed 
on, leaving the conscience-stricken sexton to ponder 
over the " crime " in which he had been detected by 
the poet. — S. C. Hall {'' Book of Memories "). 

Concerning the intercourse of these two remark- 
able persons, I have heard from Shelley, and from 
others, several anecdotes. 



ROBERT SOUTHEY. 



241 



" Southey had a large collection of books, very 
many of them old books, some rare works, — books 
in m.any languages, more particularly in Spanish. 
The shelves extended over the walls of every room 
in his large, dismal house in Keswick ; they were 
in the bedrooms, and even down the stairs. This I 
never saw elsewhere. I took out some volume one 
day, as I was going down-stairs with him. Southey 
looked at me, as if he was displeased, so I put it 
back again instantly, and I never ventured to take 
down one of his books another time. I used to 
glance my eye eagerly over the backs of the books, 
and read their titles, as I w^ent up or down stairs. 
I could not help doing so, but I think he did not 
quite approve of it. Do you know that Southey 
did not like to have his books touched ? Do you 
know why ? " 

"No ! I do not." 

" You do not know ? How I hate that there 
should be anything which you do not know ! For 
who will tell me if you will not ? " 

" I only know that persons who have large libra- 
ries sometimes have the same feeling." 

" How strange that a man should have many 
thousands of books, and should have a secret in 
every book, w^hich he cannot bear that anybody 
should know but himself. How rare and grim ! 
Do you believe, then, that Southey really had a se- 
cret in every one of his books ? " 

"No ! I do not, indeed, Bysshe." 

After musing for some minutes, he added : "There 
were not secrets in all his books, certainly, for he 
often took one down himself and showed me some 
I. -16 



Shelley s itt^ 
tercourse 

with 
Southey. 



242 



ROBERT SOUTHEY. 



Shelley's in- 
tercourse 

with 
Soiiihey. 



Reads 
Shelley 
to slee^. 



remarkable passage ; and then he would let me keep 
it as long as I pleased, and turn over the leaves, if 
he had taken it down himself ; so there could be no 
secret there. And yet," he continued, after further 
reflection, " perhaps there was a secret ; but he 
thought that I could not find it out." 

''Were the passages which he showed you really 
remarkable .'' " 

" They might be, sometimes ; but for the most 
part they were not ; at least, I did not think them 
so. They usually appeared trifling. He never dis- 
cussed any subject ; he gave his own opinion, com- 
monly, in a very absolute manner ; he used to lay 
down the law, to dogmatize. What he said was 
seldom his own, — it seldom came from himself. He 
repeated long quotations, read extracts which he 
had made, or took down books and read from them 
aloud, or pointed out something for me to read, 
which would settle the matter at once without ap- 
peal. His conversation was rather interesting, and 
only moderately instructive ; he was not so much a 
man as a living commonplace book, a talking album 
filled with long extracts from long-forgotten authors 
on unimportant subjects. Still his intercourse was 
very agreeable. I liked much to be with him ; be- 
sides, he was a good man, and exceedingly kind." — 
T. J. Hogg ('' Life of Shelley "). 

Southey was addicted to reading his terrible epics 
— before they were printed — to any one who seemed 
to be a fit subject for the cruel experiment. He 
soon set his eyes on the new-comer, and one day 
having effected the caption of Shelley, he immedi- 



ROBERT SOUTHEY. 



243 



ately lodged him securely in a little study up-stairs, 
carefully locking the door upon himself and his 
prisoner and putting the key in his waistcoat-pocket. 
There was a window in the room, it is true, but it 
was so high above the ground that Baron Trenck 
himself would not have attempted it. " Now you 
shall be delighted," Southey said, "but sit down." 
Poor Bysshe sighed, and took his seat at the table. 
The author seated himself opposite, and placing his 
MS. on the table before him, began to read slowly 
and distinctly. . . . Charmed with his own 
composition the admiring author read on, varying 
his voice occasionally, to point out the finer pas- 
sage^ and invite applause. There was no commen- 
dation ; no criticism ; all was hushed. This was 
strange. Southey raised his eyes from the neatly- 
written MS. ; Shelley had disappeared. This was 
still more strange. Escape was impossible ; every 
precaution had been taken, yet he had vanished. 
Shelley had glided noiselessly from his chair to the 
floor, and the insensible young vandal lay buried in 
profound sleep underneath the table. — T. J. Hogg 
("Life of Shelley"). 

Here is a man in Keswick, who acts upon me as 
my own ghost would do. He is just w^hat I was in 
1794. His name is Shelley, son to the member for 
Shoreham ; with ^6,000 a year entailed upon him, 
and as much more in his father's power to cut off. 
Beginning with romances of ghosts and murder, 
and with poetry at Eton, he passed, at Oxford, into 
metaphysics ; printed half a dozen pages, which he 
entitled " The Necessity of Atheism ;" . . . was 



Reads 
Shelley 
to sleep. 



Southey's 

account o/ 

Shelley. 



244 



ROBERT SOUTHEY. 



Souikeys 

account of 

Shelley. 



Unmusical. 



Generosity. 



expelled in consequence ; married a girl of seven- 
teen, after being turned out of doors by his father ; 
and here they both are, in lodgings, living upon 
^200 a year, which her father allows them. He is 
come to the fittest physician in the world. At pres- 
ent he has got to the Pantheistic stage of philoso- 
phy, and, in the course of a week, I expect he will be 
a Berkeleyan, for I have put him upon a course of 
Berkeley. It has surprised him a good deal to meet, 
for the first time in his life, with a man who per- 
fectly understands him, and does him full justice. 
I tell him that all the difference between us is that 
he is nineteen and I am thirty-seven/ — Robert 
SouTHEY (Letter to G. S. Bedford, 18 12). 

We talked of church music, and I mentioned the 
Messiah of Handel. He told me that he had no ear 
for music ; he did not know what was in tune or 
out of tune ; yet he did not dislike music ; but some 
one had explained to him, and made him compre- 
hend in what had consisted the excellencies of Han- 
del. — Anna Eliza Bray ('' Autobiography "). 

Southey freely gave much of his time and labor, 
throughout the course of his laborious life, to help 
literary workers who were less gifted or less fortu- 
nate than himself. There are many instances of 
his ungrudging kindness to poor authors and their 
families. He gave advice, revised manuscripts, and 



^ In the volume of coiTespondence between Southey and Caro- 
line Bowles, edited by Edward Dowden, and published in i88i, 
will be found some very interesting letters which passed between 
Southey and Shelley. 



ROBERT SOUTHEY, 



245 



edited books ; and this when every hour was of 
practical importance to him. But he not only gave 
his time and his labor, he also gave his hard-earned 
money. One instance of this will suffice to show 
the character of the man. The story is well told by 
Edward Dowden, in his recent book upon Southey,^ 
the facts being derived from C. C. Southey's work : — 
"Notwithstanding his unwearied exertions, his 
modest scale of expenditure, and his profitable con- 
nection with the Quarterly Review^ ... he 
never had a year's income in advance until that year, 
late in his life, in which Sir Robert Peel offered 
him a baronetcy. In 1818, the lucky payment of a 
bad debt enabled him to buy 300/. in the Three-per- 
cents. *I have 100/. already there,' he writes, * and 
shall then be worth 12/. per annum.' By 182 1 this 
sum had grown to 625/., the gatherings of half a 
lifetime. In that year his friend John May, whose 
acquaintance he had made in Portugal, and to whose 
kindness he was a debtor, suffered the loss of his 
fortune. As soon as Southey had heard the state of 
affairs, his decision was formed. ' By this post,' he 
tells his friend, * I write to Bedford, desiring that he 
will transfer to you 625/. in the Three-per-cents. I 
wish it was more, and that I had more at my com- 
mand in any way. I shall in the spring, if I am 
paid for^he first volume of my History as soon as it 
is finished. One hundred I should, at all events, 
have sent you then. It shall be as much more as I 
receive.' And he goes on in cheery words to invite 



' Dowden (Edward). Southey. i2mo (English Men of Letters. 
Edited by J. Morley). London and New York, 1880. 



Generosity, 



246 



ROBERT SOUTHEY. 



Abhorrence 
of cruelty. 



John May to break away from business and come to 
Keswick, there to lay in ' a pleasant store of recol- 
Generosity. lections which in all moods of mind are wholesome.' 
One rejoices that Southey, poor of worldly goods, 
knew the happiness of being so simple and nobly 
generous." 

I have seen his cheek glow, and his eye darken 
and almost flash fire, when he chanced to witness 
anything of the kind,^ and heard him administer a 
rebuke which made the recipient tremble. Like 
some other gentle natures, when his indignation was 
roused — and it was only such cases that did fairly 
rouse it — he was stern indeed. In reading or speak- 
ing of any cases of cruelty or oppression, his coun- 
tenance and voice would change in a most striking 
manner.— C. C. Southey (" Life of R. Southey "). 

Before we had been ten minutes together my 
heart was knit to Southey, and everj^ hour there- 
after my esteem for him increased ; . . . the 
TheEttrick wcathcr being fine, we spent the time in rambling 
^'ojitiion/ : oil the hills and sailing on the lake ; and all the time 
he manifested a delightful flow of spirits, as well 
as a kind sincerity of manner, repeating convivial 
poems and ballads, and always between hands break- 
ing jokes on his nephew, young Coleridge, in whom 
he seemed to take great delight. — James Hogg 
(" Reminiscences of Former Days " "). 



^ Namely, any act of craelty. 
^ Hogg (James). Poetical Works. 
5 vols., i6mo. Glasgow, 1838-1840. 



With Autobiography, etc. 



ROBERT SOUTHEY. 



247 



A man of more serene and even temper could not 
be imagined ; nor more uniformly cheerful in his 
tone of spirits ; nor more unaffectedly polite and 
courteous in his demeanor to strangers ; . . . 
In the still ''weightier matters of the law," in cases 
that involved appeals to conscience and high moral 
principle, I believe Southey to be as exemplary a 
man as can ever have lived. Were it to his own in- 
stant ruin, I am satisfied that he would do justice 
and fulfil his duty under any possible difficulties, 
and through the very strongest temptations to do 
otherwise. For honor the most delicate, for integ- 
rity the firmest, and for generosity within the limits 
of prudence, Southey cannot well have a superior ; 
and, in the lesser moralities — those which govern 
the daily habits, and transpire through the manners 
— he is certainly a better man — that is (with refer- 
ence to the minor principle concerned), a more ami- 
able man — than Wordsworth. — Thomas De Quincey 
(" Literary Reminiscences "), 



Various 

good 

qualities. 



WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR. 

1 775-1864. 



INTRODUCTORY NOTE. 



WE may well be surprised that Landor lived 
so long, and that he remained hale and 
vigorous at an age which few men reach. The vi- 
tality must indeed have been great, the frame, like 
steel — strong and elastic — which could withstand 
the strain and shock of such wild passions for nearly 
ninety years. The headlong violence of his temper 
betrayed him into almost incredible excesses of 
speech and action, extravagances which stopped 
but little short of madness. He lived a very stormy 
life, and he brewed his own tempests. But this was 
not all. The whirlwinds came often and raged furi- 
ously, but they were followed by seasons of beauti- 
ful calm and sunshine. This fiery genius could be 
gentle and playful as a child, tender as a maiden. 

One of the most remarkable and suggestive things 
in Landor's life is his long intimacy with Southey ; 
a friendship which grew closer and warmer through 
thirty-five years. There was never the slightest 
quarrel, or even misunderstanding, between the two 
men. This is in itself a noteworthy fact, for, first 
or last, Landor quarrelled with nearly every one 
whom he knew. The intimacy becomes still more 
interesting when we consider the points of differ- 



252 WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR. 

ence between the men. Southey was scrupulously 
methodical in all his ways — everything was done by 
rule. Landor followed the impulse of the passing 
hour, wholly regardless of any fixed methods of ac- 
tion. Southey held a high temper under such firm 
control that it seldom manifested itself. Landor 
was devoid of self-restraint — a dangerous volcano, 
likely to be in a state of eruption at any moment. 
Before they met, the once radical Southey, the dis- 
ciple of Rousseau, had become a sober conservative, 
gladly recognizing the claims of authority. Landor, 
always a revolutionist, wherever he encountered 
authority, whether social, political, or religious, 
by a natural impulse contemned and opposed it. 
Southey lived peacefully in his home at Keswick 
for forty years. Landor, in the same space of time, 
was repeatedly forced to change his residence, in 
consequence of his own misbehavior.^ Differences, 
even more striking than these, appear in their vari- 
ous relations to family life, in their conduct as hus- 
bands and fathers. 

It is true that they had much in common in their 
scholarship, their literary tastes, and their mutual 
respect and admiration for each other's work. Yet 
these bonds of sympathy are not enough to account 
for such an intimacy, in spite of so many and so 
radical points of antagonism. The explanation is 
to be found in what lay deepest in both Southey 
and Landor ; in their cordial generosity ; in their 
high courage ; most of all, in their truth, and sin- 
cerity of purpose. 

' For illustrations of this statement, see p. 280. 



WALTER SAVAGE LAND OR. 253 

John Forster's Biography of Landor is the princi- 
pal source of information. Unfortunately, this is a 
peculiarly tiresome and unsatisfactory JDOok, but it 
is quite indispensable. There are interesting notices 
of Landor in C. C. Southey's ''Life of R. Southey ;" 
in this work, and in the selections from Southey's 
correspondence, edited by J. W. Warter, many of 
Landor's letters have been preserv^ed. If only one 
book is to be consulted, by far the best is the volume 
in the " English Men of Letters " series, by Professor 
Sidney Colvin. There is an excellent account of 
Landor, during his long residence at Bath, written 
by Mrs. E. Lynn Linton, and published in Frasers 
Magazine^ Ji-ily, 1870. Three articles by Miss Kate 
Field, entitled ''Last Days of Landor," were pub- 
lished in the Atlantic Monthly in 1866. In Lippincotfs 
Magazine, April, 1874, there is a valuable article by 
T. Adolphus TroUope. Charles Dickens published 
some personal reminiscences in All the Yea?- Round, 
July, 1869 ; and there is a clever anonymous article 
in the Athenceurn, June 5, 1869. The following works 
also claim attention : Lord Houghton's " Mono- 
graphs;" James T. Fields's "Old Acquaintance;" 
the Countess of Blessington's "Idler in Italy ;" the 
" Diary" of Henry Crabb Robinson ; and the volume 
of selections from Landor's writings, edited by Pro- 
fessor Sidney Colvin, and recently published by 
Macmillan & Co. This volume is worthy of atten- 
tion as a thoroughly well-made book ; it contains a 
useful and suggestive chronological table, linking 
the life of Landor with the lives of some of his con- 
temporaries. 



254 WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR, 



LEADING EVENTS OF LANDOR' S LIFE. 

1775. Bom, January 30th, in Warwick. 

1785.— (Aged 10.) At Rugby. 

1790. — (Aged 15.) Removed from Rugby, to avoid public expul- 
sion for insubordination, and placed with a 
private tutor. 

1793. — (Aged 18.) At Oxford University. 

1794. — (Aged 19.) Rusticated for violent behavior. 

1795. — (Aged 20.) Publishes his first work, a volume of poems. 

1798. — (Aged 23.) Publishes "Gebir." 

1805. — (Aged 30.) His father dies. He succeeds to a large estate, 
and lives in Bath. 

1808. — (Aged 33.) Goes to Spain, as a volunteer, to fight against 
Napoleon. Returns to England. 

181 1. — (Aged 36.) Marries Miss Julia Thuillier, and removes to 
Llanthony, in Wales. 

1812. — (Aged 37.) Publishes " Count Julian." 

1814. — (Aged 39.) His estate in Wales passes into the hands of 
trustees, and he goes abroad. 

1815. — (Aged 40.) At Tours with his wife. They remove to Italy. 

1824. — (Aged 49.) \ Publishes three series of "Imaginary Con- 

1828. — (Aged 53.) V versations." Resides with his family in 

1829. — (Aged 54.) ) Italy. 

1834. — (Aged 59.) Publishes "The Examination of William 
Shakespeare." 

1835. — (Aged 60.) Separates from his wife and children and goes 
to England. 
■) Resides alone in Bath. Publishes " The 

1837. — (Aged 62.) I Pentameron of Boccaccio and Petrarca," 

1857.— (Aged 82.) I and "The Last Fruit off an Old Tree." 
J Edits his collected works. 

1858. — (Aged 83.) Forced to leave England, in consequence of a 
libel suit. Goes to Italy. 

1863. — (Aged %%.) Publishes "Heroic Idylls." 

1864. — (Aged 89 years and 7 months.) Dies in Florence, Septem- 
ber 17th. 



WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR. 



WALTER was of strong build, but never, in 
early or later life, rode well ; and though 
he took part in cricket, football, and other games, 
and was even famous for the skill with which he 
threw the cast-net in fishing, he was at all times 
disposed rather to walk by the riverside with a book 
than to engage in such trials of strength and activ- 
ity. In one of his letters he remarks both of school 
and college days, that he oftener stuck in the middle 
of a Greek verse than of a brake ; and he writes on 
one occasion to Southey, much in the style of an 
inexpert horseman : " I was very fond of riding 
when I was young, but I found that it produces a 
rapidity in the creation of thought which makes us 
forget what we are doing." His brother Robert 
tells me that he never followed the hounds at 
Rugby or anywhere else, and that when he kept 
three horses he never mounted one of them. — John 
FoRSTER (" Life of Landor ").^ 

"Though followed," writes Mr. Robert Landor, 
*' by two younger brothers as soon as they could be 



' Forster (John). Walter Savage Landor : a Biography. 2 vols. 
London, 1869, 



Boyhood. 



2s6 



WALTER SAVAGE LAN DOR. 



Gout 
in boyhood. 



received at Rugby, there remains nothing worth re- 
cording till he was twelve years old, — when a vio- 
lent fit of the gout — gout which might have qualified 
him for an alderman — restored him to his mother's 
care at Warwick. Never was there a more impa- 
tient sufferer ; and his imprecations, divided equally 
between the gout and his nurses, were heard afar. 
It is also strange that there never was any return of 
this disorder. Our father suffered from it, and all 
three of the younger brothers ; but though Walter's 
appetite much surpassed the best of ours (or the 
worst), he escaped it during more than seventy 
years. However active at dinner, he was always 
temperate after it ; and I never saw the smallest sign 
of excess, though he greatly enjoyed three or four 
glasses of light wine." — Robert Landor (quoted in 
Forster's *' Life of Landor "). 



The excellence of his Latin verses was a tradition 
at Rugby for half a century after he left ; . . . 
Latin and \ his familiarity with Greek was less conspicuous, that 
'loiarskip language having become his more especial study 
only in later years. . . . But what would seem 
most to have marked itself out as peculiar in his 
mastery of both Greek and Latin, even so early as 
his Rugby days, was less what masters could teach 
him than what Nature herself had given him. This 
was a character and habit of mind resembling closely 
that of the ancient writers ; ways of seeing and 
thinking nearly akin to theirs ; the power, sudden 
as thought itself, of giving visual shape to objects 
of thought ; and with all this, intense energy of feel- 
ing, and a restless activity of imagination, eager to 



at Rugby. 



WALTER SAVAGE LAND OR 



257 



reproduce themselves in similar forms of vivid and 
picturesque expression. — John Forster (''Life of 
Landor "). 

He seems to have thought, when in the school,' that 
Doctor James either would not or could not appre- 
ciate what he did in Latin verse, and that when he 
w^as driven to take special notice of it, he took the 
worst, and not the best, for the purpose. Thus, 
when told very graciously on one occasion to copy 
out fairly in the Play-book verses by himself of 
which he thought indifferently, Landor in m.aking 
the copy put private additions to it of several lines, 
with a coarse allusion beginning, " H^c sunt ma- 
lorum pessima carminum quae Landor unquam 
scripsit," etc. This offence w^as forgiven ; but it 
w^as followed by another of which the circumstances 
were such as to render it impossible that he should 
continue longer in the school. The right at first 
was on Landor's side, for Doctor James had strongly 
insisted on, and the other as firmly had declined, 
the correction of an alleged false quantity found 
really not to exist. But, apart from the right or 
wrong of the dispute, an expression in the course of 
it rudely used by the pupil, . . . was very 
sharply resented by the master ; and when the mat- 
ter came to be talked about, only one result was pos- 
sible. *' When between fifteen and sixteen," writes 
Mr. Robert Landor, "he was not expelled from 
Rugby, but removed as the less discreditable pun- 
ishment, at the head-master's suggestion. There 

* Rugby. 



Removal 
from Riegby. 



258 



WALTER SAVAGE LAND OR. 



Removal 
froJTz Rugby, 



Tivo young 
Jacobins. 



was nothing unusual or discreditable in the partic- 
ular transgression, but a fierce defiance of all au- 
thority, and a refusal to ask forgiveness." — John 
FoRSTER (" Life of Landor "). 

Even among those of Landor's own way of think- 
ing in the University, there were many who seem 
purposely to have kept aloof from him ; not because 
he was a Jacobin, but because he was a "mad" 
Jacobin ; though it is not at all clear that the epithet 
might not have been accepted to mean a more sen- 
sible sort of Jacobinism than was popular in the 
particular quarters from which it proceeded. *'At 
Oxford," said Landor, recalling this time in his old 
age, *' I was about the first student who wore his 
hair without powder. ' Take care,' said my tutor, 
' they will stone you for a republican.' The Whigs 
(not the Wigs) were then unpopular ; but I stuck 
to my plain hair and queue tied with black rib- 
bon." ... 

His inspiration doubtless had been the minister 
Roland's refusal to go to court in either knee-buckles 
or shoe-buckles ; and under influence of the same 
example, a youth six months older than Landor was 
then also waging at Baliol so fierce a war against 
old ceremonies and usages, that he too had resisted 
every attempt of the college barber to dress or pow- 
der him, and had gone into hall in flowing locks ; 
yet the remark upon the madness of Landor's Ja- 
cobinism was given by this very student of Baliol, a 
few years later, as his only reason for not having now 
sought Landor's acquaintance. " Gebir " had then 
appeared and been placed in the first rank of English 



WALTER SAVAGE LAND OR. 



259 



poetry by the same youth, who in the interval had 
himself published "Joan of Arc;" when, upon the 
name of the writer of *'Gebir" becoming known to 
him one day, all the Oxford recollection flashed back 
upon him. " I now remember," Robert Southey 
wrote to his friend Humphry Davy at Bristol, 
" who the author of the ' Gebir ' is. He was a con- 
temporary of mine at Oxford, of Trinity, and notor- 
ious as a mad Jacobin." — John Forster ("Life of 
Landor"). 

His tutor was Doctor Sleath, the late prebend of 
St. Paul's ; but though this good man had some in- 
fluence over him, it was exerted in vain to induce 
him to compete for a prize poem. " I never would 
contend at school," he wrote in one of his best let- 
ters to Southey, " with any one for anything. I 
formed the same resolution when I went to college, 
and I have kept it." With something of the shy- 
ness that avoided competition, there was more of 
the pride that would acknowledge no competitor ; ^ 
and he was, in truth, never well disposed to any- 
thing systematized either in pursuits or studies. 
What he did best and worst, he did in his earliest 
£is in his latest life for the satisfaction of his own 
w^ill or pleasure. — John Forster ("Life of Lan- 
dor "). 

For a moment I recall the well-remembered figure 
and face, as they first became known to me nearly 



^ "I strove with none, for none was worth my strife." 
Thus Landor wrote upon his seventy-fifth birthday. 



Two youftg 
Jacobms. 



Dislike for 
compe- 
tition. 



26o 



WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR. 



Personal 
appearance. 



thirty years ago. Landor was then upwards of sixty, 
and looked that age to the full. He was not above 
the middle stature, but had a stout, stalwart pres- 
ence, walked without a stoop, and in his general 
aspect, particularly the set and carriage of his head, 
was decidedly of what is called a distinguished bear- 
ing. His hair was already silvered gray, and had 
retired far upward from his forehead, which, wide 
and full but retreating, could never in the earlier 
time have been seen to such advantage. 

What at first was noticeable, however, in the 
broad white massive head, were the full, yet strangely 
lifted eyebrows ; and. they were not immediately 
attractive. They might have meant only pride or 
self-will in its most arrogant form but for what was 
visible in the rest of the face. In the large gray 
eyes there was a depth of composed expression that 
even startled by its contrast to the eager restlessness 
looking out from the surface of them ; and in the 
same variety and quickness of transition, the mouth 
was extremely striking. The lips that seemed com- 
pressed with unalterable will would in a moment 
relax to a softness more than feminine ; and a 
sweeter smile it was impossible to conceive. What 
was best in his character, whether for strength or 
gentleness, had left its traces here. 

It was altogether a face on which power was vis- 
ibly impressed, but without the resolution and pur- 
pose that generally accompany it ; and one could well 
imagine that while yet in extreme youth, and before 
life had written its ineffaceable record, the individ- 
ual features might have had as little promise as they 
seem to bear in a portrait of him now before me 



WALTER SAVAGE LAND OR. 



26 1 



belonging to his brother Henry, and taken in his 
thirtieth year. The age is fine ; but black hair 
covers all the forehead, and you recognize the face 
of the later time quite without its fulness, power, 
and animation. The stubbornness is there, without 
the softness ; the self-will untamed by any experi- 
ence ; plenty of energy, but a want of emotion. 
The nose was never particularly good ; and the 
lifted brow, flatness of cheek and jaw, wide upper 
lip, retreating mouth and chin, and heavy neck, 
peculiarities necessarily prominent in youth, in age 
contributed only to a certain lion look he liked to 
be reminded of, and would confirm with a loud, long 
laugh hardly less than leonine. Higher and higher 
went peal after peal, in continuous and increasing 
volleys, until regions of sound were reached very 
far beyond ordinary human lungs.^ — John Forster 
(" Life of Landor "). 

I met him first in 1847, when he was seventy-three 
years of age. ... I was visiting Dr. Brabant in 
Bath, and we were at Mr. Empson's " old curiosity " 
shop, when we saw what seemed a noble-looking 
old man, badly dressed in shabby snuff -colored 
clothes, a dirty old blue necktie, unstarched cot- 
con shirt — with a front more like a nightgown than 
a shirt — and **knubbly" applepie boots. But un- 
derneath the rusty old hat-brim gleamed a pair of 
quiet and penetrating gray-blue eyes ; the voice was 
sweet and masterly ; the manner that of a man of 
rare distinction. — Mrs. E. Lynn Linton (Fraser*s 
Magazine, July, 1870). 

^ In the last years of his life Landor allowed his beard to grow. 



Personal 
aj>peara7tce. 



262 



WALTER SAVAGE LAND OR. 



Peculiarity 

of his 

arms and 

hands. 



Conversa- 
tion. 



His arms were very peculiar. They were rather 
short, and were curiously restrained and checked in 
their action at the elbows ; in the action of the 
hands, even when separately clenched, there was the 
same kind of pause, and a notable tendency to re- 
laxation on the part of the thumb. Let the face be 
never so intense or fierce, there was a commentary 
of gentleness in the hands, essential to be taken 
along with it. . . . In the expression of his 
hands, though angrily closed, there was always gen- 
tleness and tenderness : just as when they were 
open, and the handsome old gentleman would wave 
them, with a little courtly flourish that sat well upon 
him, as he recalled some classic compliment that 
he had rendered to some reigning beauty ; there was 
a chivalrous grace about them such as pervades 
his softer verses. — Charles Dickens {All the Year 
Romid^ July, 1869). 

He had a stately and agreeable presence, and the 
men-of-letters from different countries who brought 
introductions to him spoke of his affectionate re- 
ception, of his complimentary old-world manners, 
and of his elegant though simple hospitality. But 
it was his conversation that left on them the most 
delightful and permanent impression ; so affluent, 
animated, and colored, so rich in knowledge and 
illustration, so gay and yet so weighty — such bitter 
irony and such lofty praise uttered with a voice 
fibrous in all its tones, whether gentle or fierce — it 
equalled, if not surpassed, all that has been related 
of the table-talk of men eminent for social speech. 
It proceeded from a mind so glad of its own exer- 



WALTER SAVAGE LAND OR. 



263 



cise, and so joyous in its own humor, that in its 
most extravagant notions and most exaggerated atti- 
tudes it made argument difficult and criticism super- 
fluous. And when memory and fancy w^ere alike 
exhausted, there came a laughter so pantomimic, yet 
so genial, rising out of a momentary silence into 
peals so cumulative and sonorous, that all contra- 
diction and possible a.ffront were merged forever. — 
Lord Houghton ^ ('' Monographs "). 

Landor put no curb on his tongue. He never 
*' spoke by the card." He rattled off like a child, 
saying what came into his head — a very big head — 
without a care as to the way in which folk would 
construe his speech ; though he flew into rage and 
riot of expostulation when his hearer represented 
him as thinking what he had said. A ludicrous ex- 
ample of this rage occurred in Emerson's account 
of a conversation held with Landor at Fiesole. They 
talked of art ; and Emerson reported that Landor 
preferred John of Bologna to Michael Angelo. Lan- 
dor certainly said so ; but when he saw his own 
words in print he roared and bellowed like a bitten 
cub. The truth was, that on the day of Emerson's 
visit, he had been quarrelling with an Italian neigh- 
bor, who boasted of the great sculptor's name and 
blood ; and those who knew Landor will be sure 
that under the svv^ay of such passion as he threw into 
his quarrels he would talk of Michael Angelo as the 
most pretentious of artists and the most despicable 



' Milnes (Richard Monclcton, Lord Houghton). 
Personal and Social. i2mo. London, 1873. 



Monographs, 



Conversa- 
tion. 



264 



WALTER SAVAGE LAND OR. 



Conversa- 
tion. 



of men, Emerson thought the opinion characteris- 
tic ; what was truly characteristic of Landor was 
the expression of an opinion which was not his 
own. The American writer . . . was quaintly 
puzzled and amused to find that after all his idol 
denied the force of words w^hich he could not dis- 
pute having used. — Anon. {Atheficeum^ June 5, 1869). 

In 1842 Daniel Macmillan visited Julius Hare, at 
Hurstmonceaux. In a letter to a friend (published 
in Hughes's Memoir of Macmillan ^) he gives the 
following account of Landor, derived from conver- 
sation with Hare : — " He is a noble, warm-hearted 
man ; but quite devoid of anything like philosoph- 
ical or judicial calmness, and seems to get more and 
more excitable as his years increase. Nothing de- 
lights him more than to pester his visitors, or his 
host, or any one he meets in company, with all man- 
ner of paradoxes. The truly amiable and lovely 
nature of Tiberius or Nero ; or the great folly and 
cruelty of Pitt and Fox. . . . Sometimes he dis- 
courses on the grandeur and beauty and harmony 
of the modern Greek and Latin prize poems of Ox- 
ford and Cambridge ; showing them to be in every 
way superior to all that the Greeks or Romans ever 
wrote! Or perhaps he spends an hour in proving 
that Monckton Milnes is the greatest English poet." 

Anything like inappropriateness of epithet or in- 
elegance of phrase annoyed him like a personal in- 



^ Hughes (Thomas). Memoir of Daniel Macmillan. 

London, 1882. 



i2mo. 



WALTER SAVAGE LAND OR. 



265 



jury ; but above all he was intolerant of slang. 
. . . But though his language was so perfect, his 
pronunciation was peculiar in some words. Thus 
he used to say '' woonderful," and ''goolden," 
"woorld," *'srimp," "yaller," and "laylock;" and 
he pronounced the in won as in on^ not wmi ac- 
cording to the general use. — Mrs. E. Lynn Linton 
{Frasers Magazi7ie, July, 1870). 

He was one of the most determined /^-murderers 
that I ever heard speak. He talked always of his 
'ouse, his 'orse, and his 'ome. I do not think that 
he went upon the compensation principle of intro- 
ducing the unfortunate letter where it ought not to 
be heard. — T. Adolphus Trollope {Lippincotf s Mag- 
azine, April, 1874). 

He had a habit, when talking, of standing bolt 
upright, with his arms close and rather stiffly pen- 
dent to his sides, with a stick or ruler, or some such 
sceptre of authority in his right hand, with which 
he smartly beat the air in emphasis to his copious, 
hurried, peremptory utterances, as if drilling his 
listener to ready and cheerful acquiescence in what- 
ever he was enunciating. — x\non. {London Reader, 
1864). 

His repugnance to common relations with man- 
kind showed itself in a peculiar way with respect to 
the pleasures of the table, in which he took an un- 
reserved enjoyment ; his highest luxury was dining 
alone, and with little light, and he would often re- 
sort to Florence for that purpose. He said, *' a 



Pronuncia- 
tion. 



DroJ>s 
his fCs, 



Emphatic 
manner. 



Solitary 
feasts. 



266 



WALTER SAVAGE LAND OR. 



Table- 
talk. 



Laughter. 



spider was a gentleman — he eat his fly in secret." 
But this dislike to conviviality did not at all prevent 
him from performing agreeably the duties of host, 
and the repast was ever seasoned with valuable talk. 
He liked open discussion, but within decorous limits. 
^'I enjoy no society," he said, "that makes too free 
with God or the ladies." — Lord Houghton (^'Mon- 
ographs "). 

Mr. Landor hated talking while he ate — indeed 
he never would talk himself, and if any one tried to 
converse with him during the active moments of 
dinner, he either rebuked them at the time or blazed 
out against them afterwards — yet in between the 
courses he would make up little poems about this 
Malmsey Madeira,' and how he was sure that the 
Greeks had wine exactly like it, and how Epicurus 
and Anacreon, and Pericles and perhaps Aspasia — 
who knows ? — had drunk it crowned with roses, to 
the music of the cithara. — Mrs. E. Lynn Linton 
{Fraser's Magazine^ July, 1870). 

There is so good a description of his laugh in a 
clever article of the London Quarterly Review^ shortly 
after Landor's death, that the reader will thank me 
for quoting it. The writer is speaking of Landor's 
morning calls in Bath, w^ith his small Pomeranian 
dog, as events to the friends he visited. '' He used 
to enounce the most /^z^^r/ opinions ; and when some 
sentiment more extravagant than the rest had ex- 



' Some very fine Madeira, over ninety years old, which had come 
to him as an inheritance. 



WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR. 



267 



cited the laughter of his audience, he would sit 
silent until they had finished laughing, then he 
would begin to shake, then to laugh aloud, piano at 
first, but with crescendo steadily advancing to the 
\Q\xd.Q^X. fortissimo ; whereupon Pomero would spring 
out from his lair, leap into his master's lap, add his 
bark to Landor's roar, until the mingled volume of 
sounds would swell from the room into the sleepy 
streets, and astonish, if not scandalize, the somewhat 
torpid Bathonians who might be passing by." — John 
FoRSTER C Life of Landor "). 

I used to dread his laugh ! Like his anger, it was 
sudden, abrupt, exaggerated, uncontrollable. It 
used to break out at first with some kind of modera- 
tion, then grow and grow till it became a deafening 
roar ; and, like thunder among the mountains, one 
never kncAV when the peal was over ; for after a few 
seconds of quiet, out it came again, worse and louder 
than ever. When he laughed and Pomero barked — 
and Pomero always barked whenever he laughed — it 
was Bedlam in that small room in beautiful Bath. — 
Mrs. E. Lynn Ia^to^ {Fraser's Magazine^ July, 1870). 

Well born as Walter Savage Landor was . . . 
no title can yet be established for such claim to 
high consideration or remote antiquity, ... as 
from time to time has been put forth in biograph- 
ical notices of him, and even in his own writings. 
For here the reflection has to be made, — strange in 
its application to such a man, — that, possessing few 
equals in those intellectual qualities which he was 
also not indisposed to estimate highly enough, he 



Laughter. 



Fa ntily 
pride. 



268 



WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR. 



Fautily 
pride. 



Political 
views. 



was not less eager to claim a position where many 
thousands of his contemporaries equalled and many- 
hundreds surpassed him. I had on one occasion 
the greatest difficulty in restraining him from send- 
ing a challenge to Lord John Russell for some fan- 
cied slight to the memory of Sir Arnold Savage, 
Speaker of Henry the Seventh's first House of Com- 
mons ; yet any connection beyond the name could 
not with safety have been assumed. — John Forster 
("Lifeof Landor"). 

He was a Jacobin,^ but so would have been if 
Robespierre and Danton had not been. He reasoned 
little, but his instincts were all against authority, or 
what took to him the form of its abuse. With ex- 
ulting satisfaction he saw the resistance and con- 
quests of democracy ; but pantisocracy, and golden 
days to come on earth, were not in his hopes or ex- 
pectation. He rather rejoiced in the prospect of a 
fierce continued struggle ; his present ideal was that 
of an armed republic, changing the face of the 
world ; and as the outbreak of the revolution had 
not made him republican, neither did its excesses 
cure him of that malady. He gloried to the last in 
avowing his preference for a republic ; though he 
would also date his hatred of the French, which he 
maintained with almost equal consistency, from the 
day when they slew their Queen. — John Forster 
("Life of Landor"). 

I do not hesitate to say that Landor was no be- 

* At Oxford, in 1 793. 



WALTER SAVAGE LAND OR. 



269 



liever in any of the creeds which are founded on the 
belief in a written revelation. Were there any pos- 
sibility of doubt upon the subject, I should not make 
this statement. But it was not in his nature to con- 
ceal any sentiment or opinion, and his own utter- 
ances on the subject were of the frankest. I re- 
member to have seen many years ago— a long time 
before I had ever known him — a long letter from 
him in which he maintained the superiority of the 
old classical paganism to any of the forms of faith 
which have superseded it. In fact, in this respect, 
as in many others, he was the most antique-minded 
man I have ever met with. — T. Adolphus Trollope 
(Lippincotfs Magazine^ April, 1874). 

His son Arnold had had a fever, and Landor writes 
to his sister, " Not receiving any letter at Naples, I 
was almost mad, for I fancied his illness had re- 
turned. I hesitated between drowning myself and 
going post back." Upon which Mr. Forster re- 
marks, " Let no one fancy that this is too extrava- 
gant even for Landor. It runs very nearly parallel 
with a story told always with much enjoyment by 
his brother Charles of his having lost his road to a 
friend's house where a party were waiting dinner 
for him, and startling a country bumpkin by the 
peremptory demand that he should either at once 
show him the way or cut his throat on the spot." 

At a friendly dinner at Gore House . . . his 
dress — say, his cravat or shirt-collar — had become 
slightly disarranged on a hot evening, and Count 
D'Orsay laughingly called his attention to the cir- 



Religious 
convictions^ 



Extrava- 
gant expres- 
sions. 



2/0 



WALTER SAVAGE LAND OR. 



Extrava- 
gant exjtres- 



Two char- 
acteristic 
sceties. 



cumstance as we rose from table. Landor became 
flushed and greatly agitated : " My dear Count 
D'Orsay, I thank you ! My dear Count D'Orsay, I 
thank you from my soul for pointing out to me the 
abominable condition to which I am reduced ! If I 
had entered the drawing-room, and presented my- 
self before Lady Blessington in so absurd a light, I 
would have instantly gone home, put a pistol to 
my head, and blown my brains out ! " — Charles 
Dickens {All the Year Round, July, 1869). 

Mr. Landor insisted that I should sit for my pic- 
ture to his protege. I consented, upon the express 
proviso that he, Landor, should always be there at 
the sittings, so that I might either listen or talk 
during the penance, and not die of ennui. . . . 
During one of these sittings the artist happened to 
speak enthusiastically about some lines of Ben 
Jonson ; whereupon Mr. Landor, who was seated 
at the time, bounded from his chair, began pacing 
the room and shaking his tightly clenched hands, as 
he thundered out : 

*' Ben Jonson I not another word about him ! It 
makes my blood boil ! I haven't patience to hear 
the fellow's name ! A pigmy ! an upstart ! a pre- 
sumptuous varlet ! who dared to be thought more 
of than Shakespeare was in his day ! " 

"Well, but surely," ventured the artist, so soon as 
he could speak for suppressed laughter, " that was 
not poor Ben Jonson's fault, but the fault of the 
undiscriminating generation in which they both 
lived." 

** Not at all ! " roared Landor, his eyeballs becom- 



WALTER SAVAGE LAND OR. 



2Jl 



ing bloodshot and his nostrils dilating — " not at all ! 
The fellow should have walled himself up in his 
own brick and mortar before he had connived at 
and allowed such sacrilege." 

" But," said I, for the painter could not speak for 
laughter, ''even if Ben Jonson had been able to 
achieve such a tour de force as this architectural sui- 
cide would have been, I am very certain, Mr. Lan- 
dor, that, taking ' Every Man in his Humor,' Shake- 
speare would have been the very first to pull down 
his friend's handiwork and restore him to the world." 

" No such thing ! " rejoined Mr. Landor, turning 
fiercely upon me. " Shakespeare never wasted his 
time ; and with his wonderful imagination he'd have 
known he could have created fifty better." 

At another sitting we had an equally ludicrous, 
because equally vehement, scene, though from a 
very different cause. I happened to say to the ar- 
tist, " Come now, Mr. , although Mrs. Primrose 

did wish as many jewels in her picture as the limner 
could throw in for nothing, yet I really must pro- 
test against your giving me as much flattery on the 
same terms. It is all very well for people to call 
my eyes violet by courtesy ; but if they are, they 
must be the leaves of the violet that is meant. As 
to tell truth and shame the devil, I'm sorry to say 
that the said eyes are tout bonnement green." This 
last was no sooner out of my mouth than Mr. Lan- 
dor was "on his legs " — that is, was shot from his 
seat as if he had been a twelve-pounder projected 
from a cannon. 

" God bless my soul ! green eyes are the most 
woonderfuUy beautiful eyes in the whole " (which he 



Tivo char- 
acter is iic 
scenes. 



272 



WALTER SAVAGE LAND OR. 



T7V0 char- 
acteristic 
scenes. 



The lost dog. 



pronounced wool) "world. It so happened," he 
continued, speaking, as was his wont, with such ex- 
press-train rapidity that every now and then he made 
a sort of snap at his under lip with his upper teeth, 
as if to prevent all the words rolling down pell-mell 
on the floor — " it so happened that when I was a 
young man at Venice I was standing in the door- 
v/ay of the Cafe Florian one day, watching the pig- 
eons on the Piazza San Marco, when an old gentleman 
rushed up to me and said, * Pardon me, sir, but 
will you allow me to look into your eyes ? Ah, I 
thought so ! Sir, you have green eyes ! I never 
saw but one pair before, and they belonged to the 
late Empress Catherine of Russia ; they were the 
most woonderfully beautiful eyes in the world. I 
have reason," continued Mr. Landor, *' to remember 
this, for while the old gentleman w^as examining my 
eyes I had my pocket picked." — Lady Bulwer {Tim- 
ley s Magazine, 1S83). 

Once, when I was staying with him, Pomero was 
missing for a few hours. We had gone out for a 
walk to Lansdowne Crescent, . . . when we 
came back Pomero, who had accompanied us for a 
short time, and had then turned as we supposed to 
go home, was not to be found. I shall never forget 
the padrone's mingled rage and despair. He v/ould 
not eat any dinner, and I remember how that it was 
a dinner of turbot and stewed hare, which he him- 
self had seasoned and prepared with wine, etc., in 
the little sitting-room ; for he was a good cook in 
that way and to that extent. And both of these 
were favorite dishes with him. But he would not 



WALTER SAVAGE LAND OR. 



273 



eat, and sat in his high-backed chair, which was not 
an easy one, or stamped about the room in a state of 
stormy sorrow, like nothing I had ever seen before, 
though I saw more than one like tempest afterwards. 
Now he was sure the dog was murdered, and he 
should never see him again ; some scoundrel had 
murdered him out of spite or cruelty, or to make a 
few pounds by him stuffed, and there was no use in 
thinking more about him ; then he would go out 
and scour all Bath for him ; then he would offer re- 
w^ards — wild rewards — a hundred pounds — his whole 
fortune — if any one would bring him back alive ; 
after which he would give way to his grief and in- 
dignation again, and, by way of turning the knife 
in his wound, would detail every circumstance of 
the dog's being kidnapped, struck, pelted with 
stones, and tortured in some stable or cellar, and 
finally killed outright, as if he had been present at 
the scene. But in a short time, after the whole city 
had been put into an uproar, and several worthy 
people made exceedingly unhappy, the little fellow 
was brought back as pert and vociferous as ever ; 
and yelped out mea culpa on his master's knee, in 
between the mingled scolding and caressing with 
which he was received. — Mrs. E. Lynn Linton 
{Fraser's Magazine, July, 1870). 

Landor had many quarrels with his publishers, 
and these quarrels were expensive ; for in such cases 
it was his habit to make a wholesale destruction of 
whatever manuscripts he might chance to have by 
him at the time. The following examples of this 
perverse freak are taken from the volume upon 
L— 18 



The lost do^ 



Destruction 
of manu- 
scripts. 



274 



WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR. 



Destruction 
of manu- 
scripts. 



Landor, in the " English Men of Letters " series, by 
Professor Sidney Colvin/ who condenses the cum- 
brous narrative of Forster with excellent effect : 

"■ During the composition of * Count Julian ' Lan- 
dor had been in close correspondence with Southey, 
and had submitted to him the manuscript as it pro- 
gressed. He had at one moment entertained the 
. . . idea of getting his tragedy put upon the 
stage. . . . This abandoned, he offered it to 
Longmans for publication. They declined to print 
it either at their own costs, or even, when he pro- 
posed that method, at the author's. Whereupon 
Landor writes to Southey (1811) : * On receiving the 
last letter of Mr. Longman I committed to the flames 
my tragedy of ' Ferranti and Giulio,' with which I 
intended to surprise you, and am resolved that never 
verse of mine shall be hereafter committed to any- 
thing else. My literary career has been a very cu- 
rious one. You cannot imagine how I feel relieved 
at laying down its burden, and abandoning its tissue 
of humiliations.* . . . The resolution recorded 
with this composed and irrevocable air lasted no 
longer than the choler which had provoked it ; and 
though the play of 'Ferranti and Giulio,' all but a 
few fragments, had been irretrievably sacrificed, we 
find * Count Julian ' within a few months offered to 
and accepted by Mr. Murray, . . . and actually 
published at the beginning of 1812." 

''By the 9th of March, 1822, he had finished fif- 
teen dialogues, and burnt two others which had 



^ Colvin (Sidney). Landor. i2mo. (English Men of Letters. 
Edited by J. Morley.) London and New York, 1881. 



WALTER SAVAGE LAND OR, 



275 



failed to satisfy him. The manuscript of the fifteen 
he consigned not many days later by a private hand 
to Longmans, to whom he at the same time ad- 
dressed his proposals fof- their publication. The 
parcel was delayed in delivery, and no answer 
reached Landor for more than three months. Long 
before that his impatience had risen to boiling-point. 
He rushed headlong to the direst conclusions. Of 
course the manuscript had been lost ; or of course 
it had been refused ; or both ; and it was just like 
his invariable ill-fortune. He was in despair. He 
took to his bed. He swore he would never write 
another line, and burnt what he had got by him al- 
ready written. ' This disappointment has brought 
back my old bilious complaint, together with the 
sad reflection on that fatality which has followed 
me through life, of doing everything in vain. 1 
have, however, had the resolution to tear in pieces 
all my sketches and projects, and to foreswear all 
future undertakings. I try to sleep away my time, 
and pass two-thirds of the twenty-four hours in bed.' 
. . . This was early in June, and it was not until 
the end of August that news of the manuscript at 
last arrived. In the meantime Landor had recovered 
his equanimity, and was busy writing new" dialogues 
and making additions to the old." 

" Landor panted for the immediate publication 
of his new edition,^ but was again foiled by his own 
impetuosity. Some want of tact in a letter of Tay- 
lor's,' some slight delays of payment and correspon- 
dence on his part, together with the irritation Lan- 



' Of Imaginary Conversations. 



His publisher. 



Destruction 
ofntanu- 
scripts. 



2^6 



WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR. 



Destruction 
of manu- 
scripts. 



dor had not unnaturally felt under his timorous 
censorship, led to an outbreak which made all fu- 
ture relations between them impossible. Landor 
. . . presently exploded, writing to accuse Tay- 
lor of every kind of misconduct, and proclaiming 
every kind of desperate resolution in consequence : 
* His first villany instigated me to throw my fourth 
volume, in its imperfect state, into the fire, and has 
cost me nine-tenths of my fame as a writer. His 
next villany will entail perhaps a chancery suit on 
ray children — for at its commencement I blow" my 
brains out. This cures me forever, if I live, of writ- 
ing what could be published ; and I will take good 
care that my son shall not suffer in the same way. 
Not a line of any kind will I leave behind me. My 
children shall be carefully warned against litera- 
ture.' ' Was ever ancient Roman so forgetful of him- 
self ? Was ever overgrown schoolboy so incorrigible ? 
. . . The materials intended for his fourth vol- 
ume he had, as we have just read, destroyed. But 
within a few months more he had produced new 
dialogues enough not only for one, but for two ad- 
ditional volumes, and in the meantime another pub- 
lisher had been found in the person of Colburn." 

" The delay which ensued in the issue of a new 
edition of his ' Hellenics ' (1859), prepared partly 
before he left England and partly at Fiesole, exas- 
perated him much as similar delays had exasper- 
ated him of old, and led, as of old, to the burning, 
in a moment of irritation, of a quantity of literary 
materials that lay by him." 

'Written to Sou they, in 1825. 



WALTER SAFAGE LAND OR. 



277 



Violent 
temper. 



The Prince of Carpi said of Erasmus he was so 
thin-skinned that a fly would draw blood from him. 
The author of the " Imaginary Conversations " had 
the same infirmity. A very little thing would dis- 
turb him for hours, and his friends were never sure 
of his equanimity. I was present once when a 
blundering friend trod unwittingly on his favorite 
prejudice, and Landor went off instanter like a 
blaspheming torpedo.^ There were three things in 
the world which received no quarter at his hands, 
and when in the slightest degree he scented hypo- 
crisy^ Pharisaism^ or tyranny^ straitway he became fu- 
rious, and laid about him like a mad giant. 

Procter told me that when Landor got into a pas- 
sion, his rage was sometimes uncontrollable. The 
fiery spirit knew his weakness, but his anger quite 
overmastered him in spite of himself. '' Keep your ^nauf' 
temper, Landor," somebody said to him one di^j \ BoyV/wVZ" 
when he was raging. ^' That is just what I don't 
wish to keep," he cried ; " I wish to be rid of such 
an infamous, ungovernable thing. I don't wish to 
keep my temper." Whoever wishes to get a good 
look at Landor will not seek for it alone in John 
Forster's interesting life of the old man, admirable 
as it is, but will turn to Dickens's " Bleak House " 
for side glances at the great author. In that vivid 
story Dickens has made his friend Landor stand for 
the portrait of Lawrence Boythorn. The very laugh 
which made the whole house vibrate, the roundness 



^ Mr. Fields tells, in "Old Acquaintance," of Leigh Hunt's hav- 
ing said of Lander's oaths, *' They are so rich, they are really nu- 
tritious." 



278 



WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR. 



The origi- 
nal of 
*■' Laiurence 
Boytkorn" 



The volcano 

in a state of 

eruption. 



Impossibil- 
ity of check' 
inghim. 



and fulness of voice, the fury of superlatives, are all 
given in Dickens's best manner, and no one who has 
ever seen Landor for half an hour could possibly 
mistake Boythorn for anybody else. Talking the 
matter over once with Dickens, he said, "Landor 
always took that presentation of himself in hearty 
good humor, and seemed rather proud of the pic- 
ture." — James T. Fields (" Old Acquaintance"). 

A lady visiting Miss James, one of his oldest and 
dearest friends at Bath, called on him one day. She 
had just been reading a letter of his in the Examiner^ 
and by way of opening the conversation agreeably, 
she said that he ''wrote for the papers." Landor 
replied hastily, "I do not, madam." He took her 
to mean literary work as a paid press man ; a thing 
of which he had a haughty horror. The lady, not 
understanding his eyes, and not seeing where he had 
mistaken her, repeated her assertion, in all good 
humor but a little dogmatically ; " Oh yes you do," 
she said, "I have just read something of yours." 
She had applied the match. Landor broke out into 
one of his most violent fits of fury ; swore she had 
insulted him and given him the lie direct ; and be- 
haved so outrageously that she and her friend were 
obliged in self-respect to beat a hasty retreat before 
his overpowering wrath. — Mrs. E. Lynn Linton 
{Eraser's Magazine^ July, 1870). 

When his passion, or madness rather, was on him 
it was useless to try and reason with him. He was 
mad, and you might as well have tried to stop the 
course of a tempest as to control him. But give 



WALTER SAVAGE LAND OR. 



279 



The old vivacity of temperament, and irascibility, 
never taking malignant forms, but very often lu- 
dicrous ones, remained to the last. I remember a 
terrible scene of consternation in the little house in 
the Via della Chiesa. Landor had had his dinner, 
and having finished had rung for the m.aid who 
waited on him to take away the dinner things. He 

^ The particulars of this affair are much too long for quotation. 
It was a quarrel over money, between two women. 



Rwinitiq 
ajnuc/i. 



him time — let the fit die out — and then he would \ ^ . -i-, 
take things quietly, and perhaps laugh at himself ity of checks 
for his fury. — Mrs. E. Lynn Linton {^Eraser's Maga- 
zine^ July, 1870). 



Believing here, as at eveiy quarrel in which he 
had ever been engaged, that he saw on one side a 
fiend incarnate and on the other an angel of light, ^ 
he permitted that astounding credulity to work his 
irascibility into madness ; and there was then as 
much good to be got by reasoning with him as by 
arguing with a storm off Cape Horn. It was vain 
to point out to him that he had nothing himself to 
gain from so sordid a dispute ; that what he had 
lost was gone irrecoverably ; and that there w^as no 
such mighty difference between the cause he cham- 
pioned and that which he assailed, to justify or call 
for interference. Why should I once more repeat 
what this narrative has told so often ? He rejected 
every warning, rushed into print, and found himself 
enmeshed in an action for libel. — John Forster 
(" Life of Landor "). 



Untamed tft 
old age. 



28o 



WALTER SAVAGE LAXDOR, 



Untamed in 
old age. 



had taught the good people of the house that it was 
expedient that that which they did for him should 
be done quickly ; but on this unfortunate occasion 
the girl did not answer his summons as immediately 
as his impatience thought she ought to have done ; 
and when he had waited for her appearance as long 
as he thought the most angelic patience could be 
expected to wait — />., about two minutes — he bus- 
tled up from his chair, and gathering together the 
four corners of the table-cloth, flung it, together 



Involun- 
tary 



with all that had been on it, but w^as now in it, out 
of the window into the street ! . . . And this 
was the vivacity of an old gentleman considerably 
past eighty ! — T. Adolphus Trollope {Lippincotfs 
Magazine^ April, 1874). 

Landor was seldom permitted to stay anywhere as 
long as he wanted to. Most of his removals were a 
matter of stern necessity. He made a place too hot 
'^r^sldenct ' ^*^ \^o\di him, and he was ordered to ''move on." 
The followirag summary of his enforced changes of 
residence is offered as a further illustration of the 
violence of his temper. In 1790 he was removed 
from Rugby, at the instance of the masters, for in- 
subordination. He was expelled from Oxford in 
1794, the cause, violence and defiance of authority ; 
upon going home he disagreed with his father, and 
w^ent to London. Law-suits, the result, for the most 
part, of his own conduct, forced him to leave his 
Welsh home, in 1814, and it became necessary for 
him to live abroad. So he sailed to Jersey, where 
he w^as followed by his wife, with wliom he quar- 
relled, and from w^hom he parted, leaving her be- 



WALTER SAVAGE LAND OR. 



281 



hind him, while he went on to Tours. Here he was 
joined by his wife after a few months, they forgave 
each other, and went together to Como in 1815. In 
1818 he was compelled to leave Como, because he 
had threatened to thrash a magistrate, whom he ac- 
cused of ill treating him in a libel suit. He was 
ordered to leave Florence, for a somewhat similar 
cause, in 1829. He quarrelled with his wife in 
1835, left her and his children in Italy, and went to 
England. After about two years of unsettled life 
in various places, he established himself in Bath, in 
1837; and here he lived alone until 1858, when he was 
again exiled from England, this time in consequence 
of a libel suit, and returned to Italy in his 84th year. 

At school, at home, at college, conscious always 
of powers that doubtless received but scant ac- 
knowledgment, he contracted such a habit of look- 
ing down upon everybody that he lost altogether 
the power, which the very wisest may least afford to 
lose, of occasionally looking down upon himself. 
Everything was to begin or to be altered anew for 
him, he was to be more sagacious than his elders, 
. . . indulge unchecked whatever humors pleased 
him, and glorying that he was not cast in the mould 
of other men's opinions, find nothing that it became 
him to object to in his own, provided only they were 
sufficiently wild, irregular, singular, and extreme. 
The contradictions in such a character as this, its 
generous as well as its selfish points, its comic and 
its tragic incidents, are necessarily marked with 
more prominence than in the ordinary run of men ; 
and almost everything will depend upon the side 



Jnvohtn- 

tary 

cha7iges of 

residejtce. 



His radical 
fault. 



282 



WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR. 



Various 
traits. 



you approach it from. — John Forster ('* Life of 
Landor "). 

The extravagant opinion of his own pre-eminence 
was formed early in life, and remained with him in 
old age. Often as he changed his estimates of con- 
temporaries, according as they rose or fell in his 
personal regard, this estimate never changed. He 
looked upon himself as superior to everybody else, 
and was angry with titles because they disputed his 
higher title. He was an enthusiastic friend ; and 
as far as sound, violence, and unmeasured denunci- 
ation went, a bitter hater ; but beyond unsparing 
vituperation, he would not have injured an enemy. 
He w^ould certainly not have lent a hand to crush 
him. It was the strong whom he always rushed to 
attack. With all the violence of his dislikes and 
likings, he had also the softness and tenderness of 
the poetic temperament. He was passionately fond 
of young children. He was generous to profusion 
whenever he had the means. He had a warm feel- 
ing for all men of literature, and would have nur- 
tured genius in whatever obscure nook found lurk- 
ing. Self-satisfied under all circumstances, he was 
without personal ambition or the desire of aggran- 
dizement.^ His own conception of himself was too 



^ The words "self-satisfied under all circumstances" must be 
taken with considerable allowance. In his letters Landor some- 
times expressed the strongest dissatisfaction with himself ; as for 
instance when he writes to South ey, — '* My evil genius drags me 
through existence against the current of my best inclinations. 
. . . I never have been happy but in consequence of some 
weakness or some vice." 



WALTER SAVAGE LAND OR, 



283 



Various 
traits. 



Two 
Landors. 



elevated to permit of his descending to ordinary 
meannesses. He neither desired money beyond what 
the necessities of the hour demanded, nor rank, nor 
influence. The men he admired were men of genius 
and talent, not men of station. He neither observed 
nor cared whether they came in carriages or afoot. 
. . . He noticed a man's appearance as little as 
he studied his own. — Edward Wilson Landor 
(Quoted in Forster's " Life of Landor "). 

John Forster quotes Robert Landor as follows : — 
" I doubt whether among all your acquaintances," 
wrote Mr. Robert Landor to me, ''you have ever 
known any two men more unlike each other than 
my brother as he appeared wiien paying his custom- 
ary visits to you or Mr. Kenyon, so joyous, so benev- 
olent then, and as he proved to be in his father's 
house while young, or in his own when twenty years 
older. Where there was no disrespect, but only a 
difference of opinion on some subject of no conse- 
quence whatever, I once heard him tell an old lady 
(my father's guest, but in my father's absence) that 
she was a damned fool. If you ask why such an 
anecdote should be related by me, I must reply that 
there may be living many persons, beyond his own 
family, who still remember such, and would contra- 
dict any narrative of yours in which the best quali- 
ties were remembered, the worst forgotten." 



The high breedmg, and urbanitv of his manners, I Courtesy:^ 

, . , ., . X 1 -. ' -1 1 I Gallaiitry, 

which are very striking, I had not been taught to 



expect. 



though courted 



His avoidance of general society, 
to enter it, his dignified reserve 



284 



WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR. 



Courtesy: — 
Gallantry. 



when brought in contact with those he disapproves, 
and his fearless courage in following the dictates of 
a lofty mind, had somehow or other given the erro- 
neous impression that his manners were, if not 
somewhat abrupt, at least singular. This is not the 
case, or, if it be, the only singularity I can discern 
is a more than ordinary politeness towards women. 
. . . The politeness of Landor has nothing of 
the troublesome officiousness of a petit-maitre^ nor 
the oppressive ceremoniousness of a fine gentleman 
of Vancien Regime ; it is grave and respectful, with- 
out his ever losing sight of what is due to himself, 
when most assiduously practising the urbanity due 
to others. There is a natural dignity which apper- 
tains to him that suits perfectly with the st3de of 
his conversation and his general appearance. — 
Countess of Blessington (" Idler in Italy "). 

R. R. Madden, in his *' Life of the Countess of 
Blessington," ^ says, " Lady Blessington thus speaks 
in one of her letters of her first meeting with Wal- 
ter Savage Landor in May, 1825, at Florence : 

' I had learned from his works to form a high 
opinion of the man as well as the author. But I 
was not prepared to find in him the courtly, pol- 
ished gentleman of high breeding, of manners, de- 
portment, and demeanor that one might expect to 
meet with in one who had passed the greater por- 
tion of his life in courts.' " 



1 Madden (R. R.). Literary Life and Correspondence of the 
Countess of Blessington. 3 vols., 8vo. London, 1855. 



WALTER SAVAGE LAND OR. 



285 



AVith all his fury and passion and pride, and his 
thousand other faults, his manners to ladies — unless 
they offended him — were singularly respectful and 
courteous. Up to quite the last years of his Eng- 
lish life, he used to take them down to the street 
door, and stand bare-headed while he handed them 
into the carriage ; and no one was more severe than 
he on the lounging slipshod manners of the present 
day, which he said every woman should resent as a 
personal affront to herself. — Mrs. E. Lynn Linton 
{Fraser's Magazine^ July, 1870). 

He used to read his own poems to me : and how 
he read ! There was nothing like that deep, rich, 
musical voice of his. It was indeed like the noblest 
music. And when he came to the more touching pas- 
sages — not necessarily pathetic, but rather stirring 
and searching — there was just that small inartificial 
quiver in his voice, which struck to one's own heart 
more than the most perfect bit of taught elocution 
in the world. — Mrs. E. Lynn Linton {Fraser' s Maga- 
zine^ July, 1870). 

When he bought anything that he thought would 
please me, he used to have a standing joke about 
being ruined. " It has cost quite a sum ! " he used 
always to say. *' I shall be entirely ruined after 
this ! " How well I remember the sweet smile — 
who that knew him does not remember that sweet, 
almost plaintive smile of his ! — with which he used 
to make his little speech, " It has cost quite a sum !" 
— bringing his lips together on the last word. — Mrs. 
E. Lynn Linton {Fraser s Magazine, July, 1870). 



Courtesy 
Gallant r 



Reading 
aloud. 



Pleasantry, 



286 



WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR. 



Ahsent- 

tninded- 

ness. 



(Hazlitt, upon the occasion of his visit to Landor, 
came in a decidedly unconventional dress) ; . . . 
"but his host," Mr. Wilson Landor adds, "would not 
know whether he was dressed in black or white. He 
wore his own clothes, like Dominie Sampson, until 
they would hardly hold together ; and when he visited 
his sisters at Warwick they used to resort to the ex- 
pedient practised upon the dominie, and leave new 
garments for him at his bedside, which he would 
put on without discovering the change." 

In that there is overcoloring, but the frequent ab- 
sence of mind could not be exaggerated ; and I 
remember one such amusing instance of forgetful- 
ness which perhaps originated the story, since it 
certainly led to the necessity at Warwick of supply- 
ing him with other clothes than his own. He had 
been so much put out at one of his visits by having 
left the key of his portmanteau behind him, that his 
sister was hardly surprised to see him, when next 
he appeared at her house, eagerly flourishing in his 
hand an uplifted key, at once knowing this to be 
his comforting assurance to her that any possible 
repetition of the former trouble had been guarded 
against. Storms of laughter followed from him 
as she expressed her satisfaction ; and the last of 
his successive peals had scarcely subsided, when, 
inquiry being made for his portmanteau, the fatal 
discovery presented itself that to bring only a key 
was more of a disaster than to bring only a port- 
manteau. 

" He was so frequently absorbed in his own reflec- 
tions," continues his reHtive, " as to be unconscious 
of external objects, which indeed seldom much af- 



WALTER SAVAGE LAND OR, 



287 



fected him. He would walk about Bath, as between 
Florence and Fiesole, with his eyes fixed on the 
ground, taking no heed of the world around him. I 
have known him to travel from London into Den- 
bighshire and be quite unable to say by w^hich route 
he had travelled, what towns he had passed by, or 
whether or not he had come through Birmingham." 
My own experience also confirms this. — John Fors- 
TER C Life of Landor "). 

His actions were always eager, half tremulous, 
and I must confess clumsy. He had no mechanical 
power, and no perception of small things. He was 
always losing and overlooking, and then the tumult 
that would arise was something too absurd, consid- 
ering the occasion. He used to stick a letter into a 
book : then, when he wanted to answer it, it was 
gone — and some one had taken it — the only letter 
he wanted to answer — that he would rather have for- 
feited a thousand pounds than have lost, and so on. 
Or he used to push his spectacles over his forehead, 
and tJien declare they were lost, lost forever. He 
would ramp and rave about the room at such times 
as these, upsetting everything that came in his way, 
declaring that he was the most unfortunate man in 
the world, or the greatest fool, or the most inhu- 
manly persecuted. I w^ould persuade him to sit 
down and let me look for the lost property ; when 
he would sigh in deep despair, and say there was no 
use in taking any more trouble about it, it was gone 
forever. When I found it, as of course I always did, 
he would say 'thank you,' as quietly and naturally 
as if he had not been raving like a maniac half a 



Absent- 
minded- 
ness. 



Clumsi- 
ness : sior7H 
and calm. 



288 



WALTER SAVAGE LAND OR. 



Forgetful- 
tiess. 



Work. 



minute before. — Mrs. E. Lynn Linton {Frazers 
Magazine^ ^\\\y^ 1870). 



Upon Blackwood making some objections to his 
'' Pericles and Aspasia," he had sent back to his pub- 
lishers . . . every shilling paid for the copy- 
right ; yet, only three years after a proceeding so 
remarkable, he had forgotten, not merely that any- 
thing had ever been paid him for the book, but, 
more marvellous still, that he had himself sent the 
money back. " I published '• Pericles and Aspasia ' 
on my own account," he reiterated ; and was send- 
ing further remittances in satisfaction of the sup- 
posed loss, when I stopped him by a statement from 
Mr. Saunders (the publisher) himself. — John Fors- 
TER C Life of Landor"). 



Whether in town or country he reflected and com- 
posed habitually out walking, and therefore prefer- 
red at all times to walk alone. " There were half- 
hours," he represents himself as saying to Southey, 
*' when, although in good humor and good spirits, 
we would on no consideration be disturbed by the 
necessity of talking. In this intei-val there is neither 
storm nor sunshine of the mind, but calm and (as 
the farmers call it) growing weather, in which the 
blades of thought spring up and dilate insensibly. 
Whatever I do I must do in the open air, or in the 
silence of night ; either is sutiicient ; but I prefer 
the hours of exercise, or, what is next to exercise, 
of field repose." — Sidney Colvin ('' English Men of 
Letters "). 



WALTER SAVAGE LAND OR. 



289 



He was always writing. He used to seem to be 
dozing, or looking out on vacancy lost in thought, 
when suddenly he would start up, seize a pen — one 
of the many blackened, scrubby, stumpy old swan 
quills that lay about the room — and write rapidly in 
his only half-legible hand, throwing his paper into 
the ashes to dry. — Mrs. E. Lynn Linton {Fraser's 
Magazine^ July, 1870). 

He said "There are two men, Hogarth and Land- 
seer, who affect my heart the most deeply of all 
painters, and Raffaelle alone can detain me so long a 
time before him." Of music he was also passionately 
fond ; and though he gave away, from time to time, 
almost every book possessed by himself, he had ex- 
traordinary enjoyment in wandering up and down a 
library belonging to a friend. — John Forster ("Life 
of Landor"). 

Landor had by this time (1833) become known, 
not wisely but too well, among the Italian picture- 
dealers, who passed through his hands as many rare 
old masters as would have set up the fortunes of 
half the galleries in Europe. In this as in too many 
other things he had no other judgment than his 
will ; and a cheerful self-imposture enabled him in 
perfect good faith to carry on the imposture hon- 
estly with all, even the rascals who made it their 
commodity. He would so prepare you by a letter 
for his Rubens or Raffaelle, or in its presence would 
do it homage with such perfect good faith, that your 
own eyes were as ready as his to be made fools to 
the other senses Often have enjoyments 



Work, 



Pictures- 
Music — 
Books. 



Old Mas- 
ters:* 



290 



WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR, 



Old Mas- 
tersj" 



Love of 
trees. 



in this way been mine which the presence of the 
real masters could not have made addition to ; and 
never had I reason to question his own belief that 
the canvas did actually contain the glories that were 
but reflected on it from imagination and desire. — 
John Forster (" Life of Lander "). 

Nothing was such pleasure to him always as to 
have the country in some form near, in shape of 
trees, plants, or flowers ; and, through three succes- 
sive changes of lodging during his first thirteen 
years in Bath, he clung to the square in which he 
first lived mainly because of a plane-tree and a 
mountain ash in the garden of which he was ex- 
tremely fond. When an accident happened to one 
of his sister's cedars he grieved as he would have 
done for some friend of his youth. ** You tell me," 
he wrote to her, "it is broken into splinters. Surely 
about the root there must be some pieces large 
enough to make a little box of. Pray keep them 
for me. Here is a man at Bath who will contrive 
to form them into something which I may keep in 
my bed-room." His sister had anticipated the wish : 
a writing-case of cedar, already put in hand for him, 
reached him on his next birthday ; and I was witness 
to the delight with which he received it. He was 
seventy that day, and had risen at his usual hour of 
nine, though he had stayed at the subscription ball 
the previous night till close upon the third hour of 
the morning. — John Forster (" Life of Landor"). 

My personal knowledge extended only to Lan- 
dor's later life ; and recollections derived exclusiveb^ 



WALTER SAVAGE LAN-DOR. 



291 



from himelf I found to be too often incompatible 
with the statements of others to be used with per- 
fect safety. Not that Landor would at any time 
consciously have practised deception. The absence 
of it in his nature in regard to such learning as he 

possessed, extended to every part of 

his life. Never was any man so little of a hypocrite ; 
for it was not until he had grossly deceived himself, 
tiiat any one was in danger of being deceived by 
him upon any subject whatever. But, with an 
imagination to the very last incessantly and actively 
busy, it Avas not difficult that by himself he should 
be so misled ; that he should not at all times be able 
to distinguish between the amusement of his fancy 
and the certainty of his recollection ; and that, with- 
out charging him even with carelessness as to truth, 
his facts would occasionally prove to have been 
hardly less imaginary than his conversations. — John 
FoRSTER ("Life of Landor"). 

Few of his infirmities are without something 
kindly or generous about them ; and we are not 
long in discovering there is nothing so wildly in- 
credible that he will not himself in perfect good 
faith believe. When he published his first book of 
poems on quitting Oxford, the profits were to be 
reserved for a distressed clergyman. When he pub- 
lished his Latin poems, the poor of Leipzig were to 
have the sum they realized. When his comedy was 
ready to be acted, a Spaniard who had sheltered him 
at Castro was to be made richer by it. When he 
competed for the prize of the Academy of Stock- 
holme, it was to go to the poor of Sweden. If no- 



Veracity. 



Phases of 
generosity. 



292 



WALTER SAVAGE LAND OR. 



PJiases of 
gene-rosity. 



Kindness to 
Southey. 



body got anything from any of these enterprises, 
the fault at all events was not his. With his extra- 
ordinary power of forgetting disappointments, he 
was as prepared at each successive failure to start 

afresh as if each had been a triumph He 

was ready at all times to set aside out of his own 
possessions something for somebody who might 
please him for the time ; and when frailties of tem- 
per and tongue are noted, this other eccentricity 
should not be omitted. He desired eagerly the love 
as well as the good opinion of those whom for the 
time he esteemed, and no one was more affectionate 
while under such influences. It is not a small virtue 
to feel such genuine pleasure as he always did in 
giving and receiving pleasure, for one half cannot 
be selfish. His generosity, too, was bestowed chiefly 
on those who could make small acknowledgment 
in thanks and no return in kind. — John Forster 
(''Life of Landor"). 

Landor and Southey became acquainted in 1808, 
and at their first meeting Landor gave a signal in- 
stance of his large-hearted generosity. Southey 
tells the story in a letter to his friend Bedford : — 
" He talked of Thalaba^ and I told him of the series 
of mythological poems which I had planned ; men- 
tioned some of the leading incidents on which they 
were to have been formed, and also told him for 
what reason they were laid aside ; — in plain English, 
that I could not afford to write them. Landor's 
reply was, * Go on with them, and I will pay for 
printing them, as many as you will write, and as 
many copies as you please.* . . . It is some- 



WALTER SAVAGE LAND OR. 



293 



thing to be praised by one's peers ; ordinary praise 
I value as little as ordinary abuse." 

It had become very difficult now to persuade him 
to leave Bath. He was readier than formerly with 
excuses for not visiting us. His excuses were some- 
times the reverse of complimentary, as when he ex- 
plained (1853) his disinclination to come to the 
great city, because there if he saw three men he 
might be pretty sure that a couple of them were 
scoundrels, while out of the same number in the 
country it might be doubted if the villanous pro- 
portion would be more than one. The following 
year he gave a more touching reason, somew^iat 
nearer the truth. " I too often think at night of 
what I had been seeing in the morning, poor 
mothers, half-starved children, and girls habitually 
called unfortunate by people who drop the word as 
lightly as if it had no meaning in it. Little do they 
think that they are speaking of the fallen angels ; 
the real ones, not the angels of mythology and fable. 
So many heart-aches always leave me one." — John 
FoRSTER (" Life of Landor "). 

August iGthj 1830. Met to-day the one man in 
Florence whom I was anxious to know. This was 
Walter Savage Landor, a man of unquestionable 
genius, but very questionable good sense. . . . 
He was a man of florid complexion, with large full 
eyes, and altogether a leonine man, and with a fierce- 
ness of tone well-suited to his name ; his decisions 
being confident, and on all subjects, whether of taste 
or of life, unqualified ; each standing for itself, not 



Reasons /o> 
avciding' 
London, 



A general 
vieiv. 



294 



WALTER SAVAGE LAND OR. 



A general 

vie7v. 



Tributes 

from 
Southey. 



caring whether it was in harmony with what had 
gone before or would follow from the same oracular 
lips. . . . The combination of superficial feroci- 
ty and inherent tenderness, so admirably portrayed 
in "Bleak House," still at first strikes every stranger 
— for twenty-two years have not materially changed 
him — no less than his perfect frankness and reckless 
indifference to what he says. . . . Though he 
meant to live and die in Italy, he had a very bad 
opinion of the Italians. He would rather follow his 
daughter to the grave than to the church with an 
Italian husband. . . . The Italians said, ''Every 
one is afraid of him." Yet he was respected uni- 
versally. He had credit for generosity as well as 
honesty ; and he deserved it, provided an ample 
allowance was made for caprice. He was conscious 
of his own infirmity of temper, and told me he saw 
few persons, because he could not bear contradic- 
tion. Certainly, I frequently did contradict him ; 
yet his attentions to me, both this and the following 
year, were unwearied. — Henry Crabb Robinson 
("Diary"). 

In 1809 Southey, having then known Landor for 
about a year, wrote to John Rickman, "You will see 
one of the most extraordinary men that it has ever 
been my fortune to fall in with, and one who would 
be one of the greatest, if it were possible to tame 
him. He does more than any of the gods of all my 
mythologies, for his very words are thunder and 
lightning, — such is the power and the splendor 
with which they burst out : but all is perfectly nat- 
ural ; there is no trick about him, — no preaching, 



WALl^ER SAVAGE LA y DOR. 



295 



no parade, no playing off." After an intimacy of 
twenty years, Southey wrote to another friend, in 
1829, '' Never did man represent himself in his 
writings so much less generous, less just, less com- 
passionate, less noble in all respects than he really 
is. I certainly never knew any one of brighter 
genius or of kinder heart." 

If not uniformly placable, Landor w^as always 
compassionate. He was tender-hearted rather than 
bloody-minded at all times. ... In fact there 
is not a more marked peculiarity in his genius than 
the union with its strength of a most uncommon 
gentleness, and in the personal ways of the man 
this was equally manifest. When . . . Leigh 
Hunt went to Italy and saw him, he endeavored to 
convey the impression produced by so much vehe- 
mence of nature joined to such extraordinary deli- 
cacy of imagination by likening him to a stormy 
mountain pine that should produce lilies. — John 
FoRSTER (''Life of Landor"). 

Landor had genius, courage, nobleness ; each on 
a grand scale, and of the highest kind. The faults 
which every eye could see in him were balanced by 
splendid merits, though these were often of the sort 
to which common eyes are blind. A nature prodi- 
gal and generous, and temper warm, confiding and 
unselfish, could not be denied him ; and men of any 
subtlety of insight could not fail to see that his 
vices were but virtues gone astray. . . . Nor is 
it clear that Landor's rush of leonine w^rath was any- 
thing more than a frenzy used for the sake of art. 



Tributes 

from 

Southey. 



Fierce, yet 
geutle. 



A kindly 
vie If uj his 
explosiiffis. 



296 



WALTER SAVAGE LAN-DOR. 



A kindly 
•vieiv of his 
explosions. 



The exaggeration is often so gross as to have the 
effect of high comedy ; and we are constantly tickled 
by the thought that much of what makes us laugh 
was merely meant for sport. In no other w^ay can 
we explain the hectoring tone, the lordly air, and 
the boastful v^rords so frequently assumed. If Lan- 
dor could be taken as meaning what he said, he 
would be regarded as the greatest bully and ruffian 
that ever lived. Such is not the way in which 
Lawrence Boythorn — openly meant for Savage Lan- 
dor — is shown to the reader of " Bleak House." 
That explosive gentleman is a comic character, with 
a certain consciousness of his amusing side. When 
Boythorn bellows — "We have been misdirected, 
Jarndyce, by a most abandoned ruffian, who told us 
to take the turning to the right instead of to the 
left. He is the most intolerable scoundrel on the 
face of the earth. ... I could have that fellow 
shot without the least remorse" — we all begin to 
laugh. Now these were Landor's phrases. When 
the smallest pebble broke the flow of his discourse, 
he would dash off into such grotesque denunciation 
as to defy anybody to keep his face. ** That fellow," 
he one day roared to the writer of these lines, ... 
"was the greatest rascal that ever lived, and his father 
before him was, next to him, the greatest rascal that 
ever lived." He owed the man no grudge, and his 
exceeding violence was but a form of his tempestu- 
ous humor. — Anon. {Athenmim^ June 5, 1869). 

" Landor has to-day," Mr. Browning wrote to me 
at the close of August (1859), "completed a three 
weeks' stay with the Storys. They declare most em- 



WALTER SAVAGE LAND OR. 



297 



phatically that a more considerate, gentle, easily 
satisfied guest never entered their house. They de- 
clare his visit has been an unalloyed delight to them ; 
and this, quite as much from his gentlemanliness 
and simple habits, and evident readiness to be 
pleased with the least attention, as from his conver- 
sation, which would be attractive under any circum- 
stances. An intelligent friend also, on a visit to 
them, bears witness to the same eifect. They per- 
ceive indeed, though not affecting themselves, in- 
equalities of temper in him ; but they all agree that 
he may be managed with the greatest ease by * ci- 
vility' alone." Such always was Landor, when he 
would consent to submit himself to friendly in- 
fluences. — John Forster (" Life of Landor"). 

His faults, though great and heavy, were more 
superficial than were his virtues, . . . they 
were more matters of temperament than of soul. 
He was assuredly not fit for a calm and peaceful do- 
mestic life in the ordinary sense ; and yet I assert it 
again and again, he was by no means so intractable 
and impossible as he has been represented. He was 
difficult ; but how many men are easy to get on 
with ? Not one in a thousand ! men too with no 
relief to their ill-tempers, men as arbitrary, as in- 
considerate, as selfish, as vain, as he has been painted, 
and without his tenderness, without his poetry, his 
intellect, his humour. I stayed with him long and 
often, and I never had one moment's coolness with 
him ; never the faintest shadow of misunderstand- 
ing or displeasure. — Mrs. E. Lynn Linton {Fraser's 
Magazine^ l\i\y^ 1870). 



A visit to 
the Storys. 



His virtues 
greater 
t'lan his 
faults. 



298 



WALTER SAVAGE LAND OR. 



" La'7fre7ice 
Boythoi 71." 



One morning at breakfast Mr. Jarndyce received a 
letter, and looking at the superscription said, ''From 
Boythorn ? Aye, aye ! " and opened and read it 
I with evident pleasure, announcing to us, in a paren- 
i thesis, when he was about half-way through, that 
j Boythorn was " coming down " on a visit. Now, 
I who was Boythorn ? we all thought. . ... 
I "I went to school with this fellow, Lawrence 
Boythorn," said Mr. Jarndyce, tapping the letter as 
he laid it on the table, "more than five-and-forty 
years ago. He was then the most impetuous boy 
in the w^orld, and he is now the most impetuous 
man. He was then the loudest boy in the world, 
and he is novv^ the loudest man. He was then the 
heartiest and sturdiest boy in the world, and he is 
now the heartiest and sturdiest man. He is a tre- 
mendous fellow." 

" In stature, sir ? " asked Richard. 
" Pretty well, Rick, in that respect," said Mr. 
Jarndyce ; " being some ten years older than I, and 
a couple of inches taller, with his head thrown back 
like an old soldier ; his stalwart chest squared, his 
hands like a clean blacksmith's, and his lungs ! — 
there's no simile for his lungs. Talking, laughing, 
or snoring, they make the beams of the house shake. 
. . . But it's the inside of the man, the warm 
heart of the man, the passion of the man, the fresh 
blood of the man . . . that I speak of. . . . 
His language is as sounding as his voice. He is al- 
ways in extremes ; perpetually in the superlative 
degree. In his condemnation he is aU ferocity. 
You might suppose him to be an Ogre, from what 
he says ; and I believe he has the reputation of one 



WALTER SAVAGE LAND OR. 



299 



I 



from some people. There ! I tell you no more of 
him beforehand. You must not be surprised to see 
him take me under his protection ; for he has never 
forgotten that I was a low boy at school, and that 
our friendship began in his knocking two of my 
head tyrant's teeth out (he says six) before break- 
fast. Boythorn and his man," to me, "will be here 
this afternoon, my dear." 

I took care that the necessary preparations were 
made for Mr. Boythorn's reception, and we looked 
forward to his arrival with some curiosity. The af- 
ternoon wore away, however, and he did not appear. 
The dinner-hour arrived, and still he did not appear. 
The dinner was put back an hour, and we were sit- 
ting round the fire with no light but the blaze, when 
the hall-door suddenly burst open, and the hall re- 
sounded w^ith these words, uttered wdth the greatest 
vehemence and in a stentorian tone. 

"We have been misdirected, Jarndyce, by a most 
abandoned ruffian, who told us to take the turning 
to the right instead of to the left. He is the most 
intolerable scoundrel on the face of the earth. His 
father must have been a most consummate villain, 
ever to have had such a son. I w^ould have that 
fellow shot without the least remorse." 

"Did he do it on purpose?" Mr. Jarndyce inquired. 

*' I have not the slightest doubt that the scoun- 
drel has passed his whole existence is misdirecting 
travellers ! " returned the other. " By my soul, I 
thought him the worst-looking dog I had ever be- 
held, when he was telling me to take the turning to 
the right. And yet I stood before that fellow face 
to face, and didn't knock his brains out ! " 



" Laivrejice 
Boythorn" 



300 



WALTER SAVAGE LAND OR. 



" La7vrence 



" Teeth, you mean ? " said Mr. Jarndyce. 

" Ha, ha, ha ! " laughed Mr. Lawrence Boythorn, 
really making the whole house vibrate. " What, 
you have not forgoitten it yet ! Ha, ha, ha ! — And 
that was another most consummate vagabond. By 
my soul, the countenance of that fellow, when he 
was a boy, was the blackest image of perfidy, cow- 
ardice, and cruelty ever set up as a scarecrow in a 
field of scoundrels. If I were to meet that unpar- 
alleled despot in the streets to-morrow, I would fell 
him like a rotten tree ! " 

" I have no doubt of it," said Mr. Jarndyce. "Now, 
will you come up-stairs ? " 

'* By my soul, Jarndyce," returned his guest, who 
seemed to refer to his watch, "if you had been mar- 
ried, I would have turned back at the garden gate, 
and gone away to the remotest summits of the Him- 
alaya Mountains, sooner than I w^ould have pre- 
sented myself at this unseasonable hour." 

** Not quite so far, I hope ?" said Mr. Jarndyce. 

" By my life and honor, yes ! " cried the visitor. 
" I wouldn't be guilty of the audacious insolence 
of keeping a lady of the house w^aiting all this time, 
for any earthly consideration. I would infinitely 
rather destroy myself — infinitely rather! " 

Talking thus, they w^ent up-stairs ; and presently 
we heard him in his bedroom thundering " Ha, ha, 
ha ! " and again " Ha, ha, ha ! " until the flattest 
echo in the neighborhood seemed to catch the con- 
tagion, and to laugh as enjoyingly as he did, or as 
we did when we heard him laugh. 

We all conceived a prepossession in his favor ; 
for there was a sterling quality in this laugh, and in 



WALTER SAVAGE LAND OR. 



301 



his vigorous healthy voice, and in the roundness 
and fulness with which he uttered every word he 
spoke, and in the very fury of his superlatives, 
which seemed to go off like blank cannons and hurt 
nothing. But we were hardly prepared to have it 
so confirmed by his appearance, when Mr. Jarndyce 
presented him. He was not only a very handsome 
old gentleman — upright and stalw^art as he had 
been described to us — with a massive grey head, a 
fine composure of face when silent, a figure that 
might have become corpulent but for his being so 
continually in earnest that he gave it no rest, and a 
chin that might have subsided into a double chin 
but for the vehement emphasis in which it was con- 
stantly required to assist ; but he was such a true 
gentleman in his manner, so chivalrously polite, his 
face was lighted by a smile of so much sweetness 
and tenderness, and it seemed so plain that he had 
nothing to hide, but showed himself exactly as he 
was — incapable ... of anything on a limited 
scale, and firing away with those blank great guns, 
because he carried no small arms whatever — that 
really I could not help looking at him with equal 
pleasure as he sat at dinner, whether he smilingly 
conversed with Ada and me, or was led by Mr. 
Jarndyce into some great volley of superlatives, or 
threw up his head like a blood-hound, and gave out 
that tremendous Ha, ha, ha ! 

"You have brought your bird with you, I sup- 
pose ? " said Mr. Jarndyce. 

" By Heaven, he is the most astonishing bird in 
Europe ! " replied the other. " He is the most won- 
derful creature ! I wouldn't take ten thousand 



^' La7vrence 
Boythorn." 



302 



WALTER SAVAGE LAND OR. 



*' Lmorence 
Boythorn." 



pounds for that bird. I have left an annuity for his 
sole support, in case he should outlive me. He is, 
in sense and attachment, a phenomenon. And his 
father before him was one of the most astonishing 
birds that ever lived ! " 

The subject of this laudation was a very little 
canary, who was so tame that he was brought down 
by Mr. Boythorn's man, on his forefinger, and, after 
taking a gentle flight around the room, alighted on 
his master's head. To hear Mr. Boythorn presently 
expressing the most implacable and passionate sen- 
timents, with this fragile mite of a creature quietly 
perched on his forehead, was to have a good illustra- 
tion of his character, I thought. 

*' By my soul, Jarndyce," he said, very gently 
holding up a bit of bread to the canary to peck at, 
'' if I were in your place, I Avould seize every Mas- 
ter in Chancery by the throat to-morrow morning, 
and shake him until his money rolled out of his 
pockets, and his bones rattled in his skin. I would 
have a settlement out of somebody, by fair means 
or by foul. If you would empower me to do it, I 
would do it for you with the greatest satisfaction ! " 
(AH this time the very small canary was eating out 
of his hand.) 

'' I thank you, Lawrence, but the suit is hardly 
at such a point at present," returned Mr. Jarndyce, 
laughing, '' that it would be greatly advanced, even 
by the legal process of shaking the Bench and the 
whole Bar." 

'* There never was such an infernal cauldron as 
that Chancery, on the face of the earth ! " said Mr. 
Boythorn. '' Nothing but a mine below it on a busy 



WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR. 



303 



day in term time, with all its records, rules, and 
precedents collected in it, and every functionary 
belonging to it also, high and low, upward and 
downward, from its son the Accountant-General to 
its father the Devil, and the whole blown to atoms 
with ten thousand hundred-weight of gunpowder, 
would reform it in the least ! " 

It was impossible not to laugh at the energetic 
gravity with which he recommended this strong 
measure of reform. When we laughed, he threw up 
his head, and shook his broad chest, and again the 
whole country seemed to echo to his Ha, ha, ha ! It 
had not the least effect in disturbing the bird, whose 
sense of security was complete ; and who hopped 
about the table with its quick head now on this side 
and now on that, turning its bright sudden eye on 
its master, as if he were no more than another bird.^ 
— Charles Dickens (" Bleak House "). 



' It would be pleasant to quote all that Dickens has to say con- 
cerning "Lawrence Boythorn." This, however, being impracti- 
cable, the reader is referred to the ninth, thirteenth, and eigh- 
teenth chapters of "Bleak House." 



" Lawrence 
boythorn" 



LIST OF WORKS QUOTED. 



LIST OF WORKS QUOTED. 

Alison (Sir Archibald). Some Account of My Life and 
Writings. An Autobiography. 2 vols., 8vo. London, 
1883. 

Andersen (Hans Christian). Story of My Life to 1867. 
i6mo. New York, 1871. 

Athen^UM, June 5, 1869. Anonymous article upon Lan- 
dor. 

Blessington (Margaret P. G., Countess of). Conversa- 
tions of Lord Byron. 8vo. London, 1850. 

The Idler in Italy. 3 vols., 8vo. London, 1839. 

Bray (Mrs. Anna Eliza). Autobiography. Edited by 
John A. Kempe. 8vo. London, 1884. 

BULWER (Lady). Article upon Landor, Tinslefs Maga- 
zine, 1883. 

Carlyle (Thomas). Reminiscences. Edited by J. A. 
Froude. 8vo. London and New York, 1881. 

Chorley (Henry F.). Autobiography, Memoir, and Let- 
ters. Compiled by H. G. Hewlett. 2 vols., i2mo. 
London, 1873. 

Clarke (Charles Cowden). Article upon Keats, G€7i- 
tleman^s Magazine, February, 1874. 

Clarke (Charles Cowden and Mary Cowden). Rec- 
ollections of Writers. i2mo. London and New York, 
1878. . 

Clayden (P. W.). Sam.uel Sharpe, Egyptologist and 
Translator of the Bible. 8vo. London, 1883.' 

COLVIN (Sidney). Landor. i2mo. (Enghsh Men of Letters. 
Edited by J. Morley.) London and New York, 1S81. 



30S LIST OF WORKS QUOTED. 

Cottle (Joseph). Reminiscences of Samuel Taylor Cole- 
ridge and Robert Southey. Crown 8vo. London, 1847. 

De QuiNCEY (Thomas). Literary Reminiscences. 2 vols., 
i6mo. Boston : Ticknor and Fields, 1851. 

Dickens (Charles). Bleak House. London, 1853. 

Review of Forster's Life of Landor, All the Year 

Rounds July, 1869. 

Dowden (Edward). Southey. i2mo. (English Men of 
Letters Series. Edited by J. Morley.) London and 
New York, 1880. 

Dyce (Rev. Alexander). Recollections of the Table- 
talk of Samuel Rogers. i2mo. London, 1856. 

Edinburgh Review, July, 1856. Anonymous article up- 
on Rogers. 

Fields (James T.). Old Acquaintance : Barry Cornwall 
and Some of his Friends. 32mo. Boston : J. R. Osgood 
& Co., 1876. 

Forster (John). Walter Savage Landor : a Biography. 
2 vols., 8vo. London, 1869. 

Galt (John). Autobiography. 2 vols., 8vo. London, 

1833. 

Life of Lord Byron. i6mo. London, 1830. 

Garnett (Richard). Article upon Shelley, Fori?tightly 

RevieWy June, 1878. 
Gillies (Robert Pearce). Memoirs of a Literary 

Veteran. 3 vols., i2mo. London, 1854. 
GiLLMAN (James). Life of S. T. Coleridge. Vol. I. 8vo. 

London, 1838. (Only one volume was published.) 
Grant (James). Random Recollections of the House of 

Commons. (Anonymous.) i2mo. London, 1836. 
Griffin (Rev. Edmund Dorr). Remains. Compiled by 

Francis Griffin. 2 vols., i2mo. New York, 1831. 
Gronow (Rees Howell). Celebrities of London and 

Paris. i2mo. London, 1865. 
GuicciOLi (Teresa Gamba, Contessa). Recollections of 

Byron. 2 vols., 8vo. London, 1869. 



LIST OF WORKS QUOTED. 309 

Hall (Samuel C). A Book of Memories of Great Men 
and Women of the Age. 4to. London, 1876. 

Retrospect of a Long Life. 8vo. London and New 

York, 1883. 

Haydon (Frederick W.). Benjamin Robert Haydon ; 
Correspondence and Table-talk, with a Memoir. 2 
vols., 8vo. London, 1876. 

Hayward (Abraham). Biographical and Critical Essays. 
2 vols., 8vo. London, 1858. 

Hazlitt (William). The Spirit of the Age. 8vo. Lon- 
don, 1825. 

Hodgson (Rev. James T.). Memoir of the Rev. Francis 
Hodgson. 2 vols., crown 8vo. London, 1878. 

Hogg (James). Poetical Works. With Autobiography, 
etc. 5 vols., i6mo. Glasgow, 1 838-1 840. 

Hogg (Thomas Jefferson). Life of Shelley. Vols. I.-IL 
8vo. London, 1858. (This work was never completed.) 

Holland (Sir Henry). Recollectionsof Past Life. Lon- 
don, 1872. 

Hughes (Thomas). Memoir of Daniel Macmillan. Lon- 
don, 1882. i2mo. 

Hunt (James Henry Leigh). Autobiography and Rem- 
iniscences. 3 vols., i6mo. London, 1850. 

■ Lord Byron and Some of His Contemporaries, with 

Recollections of the Author's Life. 2 vols., 8vo. Lon- 
don, 1828. 

Hunt (Thornton). Article upon Shelley, Atlantic 
Monthly, February, 1863. 

Jerdan (Wm.). Men I Have Known. 8vo. London, 1866. 

•Kemble (Frances Ann). Records of Later Life. i2mo. 
New York : Henry Holt & Co., 1882. 

Landor (Walter Savage). Works. 2 vols. , 8vo. Lon- 
don, 1846. 

Leslie (Charles Robert). Autobiographical Recol- 
lections. Edited by Tom Taylor. 2 vols., i2mo. Lon- 
don, i860. 



3IO LIST OF WORKS QUOTED. 

L'ESTRANGE (Rev. A. G.). The Friendships of Mary 

Russell Mitford, as Recorded in Letters from Her 

Literary Correspondents. i2mo. New York, 1862. 
The Literary Life of the Rev. Wm. Harness. Lon- 
don, 1870. 
Linton (Mrs. E. Lynn). Reminiscences of W. S. Lan- 

dor, Eraser^ s Magazine^ July? 1870. 
London Reader. 1864. Anonymous article upon Lan- 

dor. 
Mackay (Charles). Forty Years' Recollections, from 

1830 to 1870. 2 vols., 8vo. London, 1877. 
Mackenzie (R. Shelton). See Wilson (John). 
Macready (William Charles). Reminiscences and 

Selections from his Diaries and Letters. Edited by 

Sir F. Pollock. 2 vols., 8vo. London, 1875. 
Madden (R. R.). Literary Life and Correspondence of 

the Countess of Blessington. 3 vols., 8vo. London, 

1855. 
Martineau (Harriet). Biographical Sketches. 8vo. 

London, 1869. 
Medwin (Thomas). Conversations of Lord Byron, noted 

during a Residence at Pisa in 1821 and 1822. 8vo. 

London, 1824. 
The Life of Percy Bysshe Shelley. 2 vols., i2mo. 

London, 1847. 
MiLLiNGEN (Julius). Memoirs of the Affairs of Greece, 

with Anecdotes of Lord Byron. i2mo. London, 1831. 
MiLNES (Richard Monckton, Lord Houghton). Life, 

Letters, and Literary Remains of John Keats. 2 vols., 

8vo. London, 1848. 
Monographs, Personal and Social. i2mo. London, 

1873. 
Moore (Thomas). Letters and Journals of Lord Byron ; 

with Notices of His Life. 2 vols., i2mo. London, 1830. 
Memoirs, Journal, and Correspondence. Edited by 

Lord John Russell. 8 vols., 8vo. London, 1853-56. 



LIST OF WORKS QUOTED. 3II 

New Monthly Magazine, 1847. A Graybeard's Gos- 
sip. Anonymous. 

NiCHOL (John). Byron. i2mo. (English Men of Let- 
ters. Edited by J. Morley.) London and New York, 
1880. 

Patmore (Peter George). My Friends and Acquaint- 
ances. 3 vols., 8vo. London, 1854. 

Peacock (Thomas Love). Article upon Shelley, Frascr's 
Magazine, June, 1858. 

Procter (Bryan W.). Autobiographical Fragment, and 
Biographical Notes, with Sketches of Contemporaries, 
etc. Edited by C. [oventry] P. [atmore]. i2mo. 
London, 1877. 

Robinson (Henry Crabb). Diary, Reminiscences, and 
Correspondence. Edited by T. Sadler. 3 vols., 8vo. 
London, 1869. 

ROSSETTI (William Michael). PoeticalWorks of Percy 
Bysshe Shelley. With Notes and a Memoir. 3 vols., 
i2mo. London, 1878. 

Talks with Trelawny. AthencBum, July 15, 1882. 

ScoTT (Sir Walter). Article upon Byron, Quarterly 
Review, October, 18 16. 

Miscellaneous Prose Works. 7 vols., 8vo. Paris : 

Baudry, 1837. 

Severn (Joseph). Article upon Keats, Atla?ttic Monthly, 
April, 1863. 

Sharpe (Samuel). Some Particulars of the Life of S. 
Rogers. (Privately printed in London, 1859. Since 
published in several editions of Rogers's Poems). 

Shelley (Percy B.). Works in Verse and Prose. Edited 
by Harry Buxton Forman. 8 vols., 8vo. London, 
1880. 

SouTHEY (Rev. Charles Cuthbert). Life and Cor- 
respondence of Robert Southey. 6 vols. London, 
1850. 



312 LIST OF WORKS QUOTED. 

SouTHEY (Robert) and Caroline Bowles. Corre- 
spondence. With correspondence between Southey 
and Shelley. Edited by Edward Dowden. 8vo. Dublin 
and London, 1881. 

Symington (Andrew James). Thomas Moore, his Life 
and Works. 

Symonds (John Addington). Shelley. i2mo. (Eng- 
lish Men of Letters. Edited by J. Morley.) London 
and New York, 1879. 

Trelawny (Edward John). Records of Shelley, Byron, 
and the Author. 2 vols., i2mo. London, 1878. (Origi- 
nally published in 1858, with the title — Recollections 
of the Last Days of Shelley and Byron.) 

Trevelyan (George Otto). Life and Letters of Lord 
Macaulay. 2 vols., 8vo. London, 1876. 

Trollope (T. Adolphus). Article upon Landor, Lip- 
pincotfs Magazine, April, 1874. 

Whitehall Review. 1880. Interview with E. J. Tre- 
lawny. 

Willis (Nathaniel Parker). Pencillings by the Way. 
i2mo. New York : Charles Scribner, 1853. 

Wilson (John). Noctes Ambrosianae. With Memoirs 
and Notes by R. Shelton Mackenzie. 5 vols., i2mo. 
New York, 1854. 

Young (Julian Charles). A Memoir of Charles M. 
Young, Tragedian, with Extracts from his Son's 
Journal. i2mo. London and New York, 1871, 



INDEX. 



Authors Quoted. 

Alison, Sir Archibald, on Byron, 50 ; on Moore, 151. 
Anonymous, on Keats, 202 ; on Landor^ 263, 265, 295 ; on Rogers^ 

180 ; on Shelley, 88, 116. 
Blessington, Countess of, on Byron, 14, 16 note, 19, 25, 26, 28, 30, 

31, Z(>> 38. 42-44. 47. 48, 50. 51. 53. 55. 65 ; t?^ Landor, 283, 

284 ; <7« Moore, 159. 
Bray, Anna E. , <?« Soutkey, 221, 224, 239, 244. 
Browning, Robert, on Landor, 296. 
Bulwer, Lady, on Landor, 270. 
Byron, Lord, autobiographic, 10, 25, 63 ; on Moore, 150, 154, 

155 ; on Shelley, 88, 108. 
Carlyle, Thomas, on Shelley^ 78 ; on Southey, 222, 237, 239. 
Chorley, Henry F., on Rogers, 184 ; ^« Southey, 220. 
Clarke, Charles Cowden, <?« Keats, 200, 202, 203 «(?/^, 204, 206; 

on Shelley, 90, 105 note. 
Coleridge, Samuel T. , 07i Byron, 17. 
Colvin, Sidney, on Landor, 274. 
Cotter, Joseph, on Southey, 223. 
De Quincey, Thomas, on Southey, 218, 226, 247. 
Dickens, Charles, on Landor, 262, 269 ; ''Lawrence Boy thorn,'* 

296, 298. 
Dowden, Edward, on Southey, 245. 
Fields, James T., on Landor^ 277 ; on Rogers, 174, 189. 
Fitzgerald, Percy, on Rogers, 176. 
Forster, John, on Landor, 255-259, 266-269, 279, 281-283, 286, 

288-291, 293, 295, 296. 
Gait, John, on Byron^ 18, 45. 
Garnett, Richard, on Shelley.^ 140. 
Gillies, Robert P., on Southey, 232. 
Griffin, Edmund D., on Southey, 220, 224. 



314 INDEX. 



Authors Quoted. — Continued. 

Gronow, Rees H., on Shelley, 83, 96, 102. 

Guiccioli, Countess of, on Byron, 19, 21. 

Hall, Samuel C, on Keats, 203; on Moore^ 147, 178, 186; on 

Rogers, 174, 178, 186; on Southey^ 221, 240. 
Halliday, Walter S., on Shelley, 85, gBnote. 
Hare, Julius C. , on Landor, 264. 
Harness, William, on Byron, 39, 69. 
Hay don, Benjamin R., «?« Shelley, 126; on Keats, 2.0^. 
Hayward, Abraham, on Rogers^ 181, 187, 191. 
Hazlitt, William, on Byron, 62 ; on Southey, 223. 
Hogg, James, on Southey, 246. 
Hogg, Thomas J. , on Shelley, 81, 85, 87, 92, 94, 98, 99, 100-103, 

106, 109, III, 114-119, 126, 129-131, 136, 240 ; on Southey, 

230, 240. 
Holland, Sir Henry, on Byron, 54 ; on Moore, 152 ; on Rogers, 

187. 
Houghton, Lord, see Milnes, Richard M. 
Howitt, William, on Moore, 165. 
Hunt, Leigh, on Byron, 13, 24, 26, 36, 47, 51, 56, 58-60 ; on Keats, 

201, 203 ; on Landor, 277 note, 295 ; on Moore, 148, 164 ; on 

Shelley, 89, 90, 96, 128, 134, 137, 139. 
Hunt, Thornton, on Shelley, 90, 92, 95, 96, 97, 105, 106. 
Jeffrey, Francis, on Moore, 164. 
Jerdan, William, on Rogers, 173, 179. 
Keats, Mrs. George, on Keats, 203 note. 
Kemble, Frances Anne, on Rogers, 188. 
Landor, Edward W., on Landor, 282, 286. 
Landor, Robert, on Landor, 255, 257, 283. 
Landor, Walter Savage, autobiographic, 259, 265, 269, 274, 275, 

276, 282 note, 293 ; on Shelley, 136, 
Leslie, Charles R,, on Rogers, 175, 177, 178, 181, 188, 189. 
L'Estrange, A. G. , on Rogers, 185. 
Linton, Ehzabeth L., on Landor, 261, 264, 266, 267,272, 278, 285, 

287, 289, 297. 
Macaulay, Lord, on Byron, 5. 
Mackay, Charles, on Rogers, 175, 180, 190. 
Mackenzie, R. Shelton, on Rogers, 187 ; on Southey, 228. 
Macmillan, Daniel, on Landor, 264. 
Macready, WilHam C, on Rogers, 185. 
Martineau, Harriet, on Rogers, 183, 186, 190, 
Medwin, Thomas, on Byron, 26, 28 ; on Shelley, 85, 86, 88 note, 

91, 96, 97, 99, 105, no, 124, 139. 



INDEX. 315 



Authors Quoted. — Continued. 

Millingen, Julius, on Byron, 22, 24, 25, 46, 

Milnes, Richard M..,on Keats, 199, 203, 206 ; on Landor, 262, 265. 

Mitford, Mary R., on Moore, 165. 

Moore, Thomas, autobiographic, 156, 159, 160; on Byron, 9-11, 

14, 23, 26, zi, 34, 37-39, 41, 46, 49. 53. 64, 71 ; ^« Rogers, 190. 
Nichol, John, (?« Byron, 23, 64, 66. 
Patmore, Peter G., on Rogers, 173. 
Peacock, Thomas L. , on Shelley, 124, 132. 

Procter, Bryan W., on Keats^ 206 ; on Moore, 154; on Rogers, 189. 
Robinson, Henry Crabb, on Landor, 293 ; on Rogers, 191 ; on 

Shelley, 125 ; on Southey, 234. 
Rogers, Samuel, on Byron, 5, 35, 62, 6<). 
Rossetti, William M., on Shelley, 78. 
Scott, Sir Walter, on Byron, 18, 29, 36, 66-69. 
Severn, Joseph, on Rogers^ 182 ; on Keats, 203 note. 
Sharpe, Samuel, on Byron, 5 ; on Rogers, 176, 178. 
Shelley, Mary W. , on Shelley, 83. 
Shelley, Percy B,, autobiographic, 108; on Byron, 27, 23i\ (^^ 

Southey, 125, 240. 
Smith, Sydney, on Rogers, 173, 174, 192. 
Southey, Charles C, on Southey, 218, 219, 227, 228, 229, 231, 233, 

234, 236, 246. 

Southey, Robert, autobiographic, 211, 212, 227, 228, 230, 231, 233, 

235, 236, 243 ; on Landor, 259, 292, 294 ; on Shelley, 243. 
Stanhope, Colonel, on Byron, 68. 

Stanhope, Lady Hester, on Byron, 26 note. 

Symonds, John A., on Shelley, 138. 

Taylor, Sir Henry, 07t Southey, 225, 226. 

Ticknor, George, on Byron, 6() note. 

Trelawny, Edward J., on Byron, 16, 17, 22, 34, 49 note, 52, 55, 

62, 92, 13s ; on Shelley, 52, 55, 62, 92, 96, 99, 107, 115, 120, 

122 note, 123, 124, 126, 127, 133, 135. 
Trollope, T. A., on Landor, 265, 268, 279. 
WiUiams, Edward, on Shelley, 114, 

Willis, Nathaniel P., on Moore, 148, 149, 152, 153, 155, 159. 
Wordsworth, William, on Southey, 234. 
Young, Julian C, on Moore, 150, 153, 155, 157, 158, 163. 

Byron, Lord. 3-71. 

Ability, executive, 6^ ; activity, mental, 64 ; acting, powerfully 
affected by, 33 ; address, lack of, 58, 126 ; affectation, 27, 28, 
38-44, 50 • Albano, life at, 52 ; alcoholic stimulants, 34, ^S^ 



3l6 INDEX, 



Byron, Lord. — Continued. 

36, 56 ; animals, fondness for, 33 ; apology for his censo- 
riousness, 31; appearance, 13, 14, 16-19 ; argument, weak- 
ness in, 60 ; arms, fondness for, 46 ; art, ignorance of, and 
indifference to, 47; assumption of vices, 39-43, 50, 60; ava- 
rice, 43, 53 ; awkwardness in society, 12, 126 ; bargains, 53 ; 
bashfulness in youth, 12 ; boxing, 25 note ; censoriousness, 
apology for, 31 ; childhood, 9-1 1 ; chronological table, 8 ; 
Coleridge, kindness to, 68 note, 69 ; conversation, 27-32, 54, 
62 ; conviviality, 36, ■^'j ; corpulence, dread of, 23, 25 ; 
courage, 68; "coxcomb, a sublime," 62; criticism, sensi- 
tiveness to, 2,1 \ devotion to a school friend, 11 ; diet, 25, 26, 
34, 35 ; " Don Juan," how written, 56, 57— stopped by a 
criticism, ^H \ dreads to be thought sentimental, 38, 44; 
dress, 15, 17, 19, 23, 24, 47, 57 ; eulogies by personal friends, 
69, 70, 71 ; fickleness, 44, 45, 46, 55 ; flippancy, 26, 50, 52 ; 
foppishness, 24 ; friendship, his own view of, 6-^ ; generosity, 
53, 68, a}td?tote, 69 ; " Good-by, Gaby," 12 ; good-fellowship, 
36, 37, 45, 68, 69 ; Greece, 66, 67, 68 ; Guiccioli, Countess 
of, 19, 57 ; Harrow, incident at, 11 ; horsemanship, 19, 20, 
57 ; Hunt, Leigh, treatment of, 55; intercourse with, 55, 56, 
57 ; indiscreet talk, 30, 31 ; indiscretion, 58 ; jealousy, 58, 
59 ; Johnsonian tone in conversation, 28 ; Kean's acting 
throws him into a fit, 23 I lameness, 9, 10, 13, 16, 21-24, 3^ ; 
leading events of his life, 8 ; lisp, 2,6 note ; melancholy, 15, 
18, 23, 36 ; melodramatic, 39, 40, 41, 42 ; memory, 65 ; mim- 
icry, 31, 37; Moore, friendship with, 63 — opinion of, 150, 
I54i 155 ; mystification, love of, 42, 43; niggardliness, 52, 53; 
pictures, ignorance of, 47 ; Pisa, life at, 56, 135 ; political 
views, 29, 66, 67 ; pride of rank, 48 ; pronunciation, 10, 26, 
and note; quoted, 10, 12, 24, 25, 35, 37-40, 52, 59, 60, 62, 63, 
65, 66, 68 note, 88, 108, 127, 150, 154, 155 ; rage, instances 
of, 49; reserve, lack of, 29, 30 ; riding, 19, 20 note, 57; scan- 
dal, dismissal of the latest, 64 ; school-days : attempt to res- 
cue a friend, 11 ; school-days, his own account of, 10 ; 
Scottish accent, 10, 27 ; self-slander, 39-43, 50 ; sentiment, 
denial of, 38, 44 ; Shakespeare and Spenser, opinion of, 59 ; 
Shelley, influence of, 52, 126 note — intercourse with, 52, 55 ; 
96, 135; Shelley, Mrs., treatment of, 52; singing, 56; 
" Snake, the," a name for Shelley, 62 ; social traits, 27, 29- 
32, 54, 60, 61, 127 ; society, demeanor in, 12, 28, 30, 34, 35, 36, 
42, 48, 50, 54, 58, 60, 62, 126 ; storms, love of, 32 ; supersti- 
tion, instances of, 51 ; suspicious, 36 ; swimming, 25 ; taste, 



INDEX. 317 



Byron, Lord. — Continued, 

47 ; taste, no sense of, 34 ; temper, 9, 45, 46, 48, 49 — in child- 
hood, 9 ; tobacco, 26, and tiote^ 57 ; vanity, character of, 24, 
25, 39, 43, 47, 48, 50, 58-62 ; Venice, life at, 50 ; vices, assump- 
tion of, 39-43, 50, 60 ; vindictiveness, 58, 61, 62 ; voice, 26, 
27 ; vulgarity, 47 ; watch, destroys his, 49 ; Waterloo, remark 
about, 66 note ; work, methods of, 56, 57, 135 ; youth, 12. 

Coleridge, Samuel T., conversation, 223, 224. 

De Quincey, Thomas, Southey's opinion of, 237, 238. 

Dickens, Charles, imitation of Rogers, 169, 176. 

" Don Juan," 37, 56. 57. 

GuicciOLi, Countess of, 19, 57. 

Harrow, Byron and Peel at, 11. 

Hunt, Leigh, criticism of Byron, 6, si^oi^ : intercourse with Byron, 
55. 56, 57. 

Jeffrey, Francis, duel with Moore, 160. 

Kean, Edmund, effect of his acting upon Byron, 33 ; Keats's resem- 
blance to, 200. 

Keats, John. 193-207. 

Appearance, 201-204, 206, 207 ; childhood, 199, 200 ; chrono- 
logical table, 197 ; conversation, 204, 205, 207 ; courage, 199, 
202 ; dignity, 205 ; generosity, 199, 200 ; humor, 199, 204, 
205 ; impetuosity, 199, 200, 205, 206 ; indecision, 205 ; indig- 
nation at wrong-doing, 206 ; intemperance, 199, 200, 205 ; 
Kean, Edmund, resemblance to, 200 ; leading events of his 
life, 197; "Newton, confusion to the memory of!" 204; 
" Ode to a Nightingale," origin of, 206 ; pugnacity, 199, 200 ; 
quoted, 204 ; rage, transports of, 199, 200 ; school-days, 200, 
201 ; sensibility, 199, 201 ; shyness, 202 ; society, demeanor 
in, 202, 205, 207 ; studiousness, 201. 

Landor, Walter Savage. 249-303. 

Absent-mindedness, 286, 287, 288 ; alcoholic stimulants, 256,266; 
Angelo, Michael, a characteristic reason for undervaluing 
him, 263 ; antique, sympathy with, and resemblance to, the, 
256, 266, 269 ; appearance, 259-262, 293 ; arms and hands, 
peculiarity of, 262; arrogance, 281, 282; art, comments 
upon, 263 ; confidence in his knowledge of, 289, 290 ; author- 



3l8 INDEX. 



Landor, Walter Savage. — Continued. 

ity, defiance of, 252, 258, 268, 280, 281 ; Bath, life at, 266, 267, 
272, 273, 290; "Bleak House," mentioned, 277, 278, 294, 
296— quoted, 296, 298-303 ; books, 289 ; boyhood, 255-258 ; 
chronological table, 254 ; clumsiness, 287 ; competition, dis- 
like for, 259 ; consciousness of his own faults, 277, 279, 282 
note, 294 ; contradictions of character, 281, 283, 287; conver- 
sation, 262-266, 270-272, 294, 296 ; courtliness, 262, 283-285 ; 
creduhty, 279, 289 ; dog, the lost, 272 ; dress, 258, 261, 286 ; 
Emerson's visit, 263 ; emphatic manner, 265 ; extravagant 
expressions, 263, 264, 266, 269, 270-272, 276, 296; family 
pride, 267 ; forgetfulness, 286-288 ; gallantry, 284, 285 ; gas- 
tronomy, 272 ; generosity, 282, 291, 292 ; gentleness, 262, 
282, 285, 295, 297 ; gout in boyhood, 256 ; "green eyes, woon- 
derfully beautiful," 271 ; Hogarth, opinion of, 289 ; horse- 
manship, 255 ; involuntary changes of residence, 280 ; Ja- 
cobinism at Oxford, 258, 259; John of Bologna, whimsical 
estimate of, 263 ; Jonson, Ben, opinion of, 270, 271 ; Land- 
seer, opinion of, 289 ; language, fastidious use of, 264, 265 ; 
Latinity, 256, 257; laughter, 261, 263, 266, 267; " Lawrence 
Boythorn," Dickens's statement about, 278 — Landor's ac- 
ceptance of, 278 — mentioned, 277, 278, 294, 296— quoted, 
296, 298-303 ; leading events of his life, 254 ; London, reasons 
for avoiding, 293 ; manuscripts, destruction of, 273-276 ; 
music, 289 ; oaths, quality of his, 277 note ; " Old Masters," 
289 ; out-of-doors life, 288 ; Oxford, life at, 258, 259, 280 ; 
Paganism, respect for, 269 ; paradoxes, liking for, 264, 266, 
270, 271 ; " Pericles and Aspasia," anecdote about the pub- 
lication of, 288 ; pictures, purchase of worthless, 289 ; play- 
fulness, 285; political views, 252, 258, 268 ; " Pomero," the 
pet dog, 266, 267, 272 ; pride, 257, 259, 281, 282 ; pride, 
family, 267 ; pronunciation, 265, 271, 272 ; quarrelsomeness, 
251, 257, 263, 268, 273-281 ; quoted, 258, 269, 270-272, 274- 

277, 285, 290, 293 ; Raffaelle, opinion of, 289 ; rage, instances 
of, 274-279 ; reading aloud, 285 ; religious views, 268, 269 ; 
residence, involuntary changes of, 2S0 ; rudeness to ladies, 

278, 283 ; Rugby, life at, 255-258, 280 ; self-control, lack of, 
256, 257, 263, 272-281, 287, 294 ; self-will, 281 ; slang, intol- 
erance of, 265 ; society, demeanor in, 262, 264, 266, 267, 269, 
283-285 ; solitary feasts, 265 ; Southey, a generous offer to, 
292 — contrasted with Landor, 251 — intimacy with, 251, 292 ; 
Story, W. W., a visit to, 296 ; sympathy with suffering, 293 ; 
table-traits, 265, 266 ; temper, 256, 257, 263, 270-281, 287, 



INDEX. 319 



Landor, Walter S2LVSige.— Continued. 

294 ; tenderness, 262, 282, 285, 293, 295 ; trees, love of, 290; 
uncontrollable, 277-279 ; veracity, 291 ; violence, 256, 257, 
270-281, 287,295, 296; voice, 261, 262, 267, 285 ; work, 288, 



Moore, Thomas. 141 -166. 

Appearance, 147-149, 153 ; applause, delight in, 149, 152, 158, 
159, 165 ; Blessington, Lady, a dinner with, 153 ; cheerful- 
ness, 164 ; childhood, 147 ; chronological table, 144, 145 ; con- 
versation, 150, 151, 153, 164; criticism, avoidance of adverse, 
159; Dickens, jealous of his social popularity, 158, 159; duel 
with Jeffrey, 160-163 ; Edinburgh theatre, at the, with Scott, 
156 ; egotism, 156, 158, 159 ; family life, 165, 166 ; gallantry, 
153 ; good-fellowship, 151, 164; honesty, 164, 165 ; hysterics, 
158 ; jealous of admiration, 152, 158, 159 ; Jeffrey, duel with, 
160-163 ; judgment, his, of contemporaries, 163 ; kindliness, 
163, 164 ; leading events of his life, 144, 145 ; mother, devo- 
tion to, 163 ; music, 152, 157, 158 ; nationality apparent, 164; 
near-sightedness, 153 ; nervous excitability, 158 ; politics, 
143 ; popularity, longing for, 158 ; precocity, 147 ; quoted, 
156, 158, 159, 160-163 ; rank, regard for, 154, 155, 165, 166 ; 
rehgious views, 143 ; self-consciousness, 150, 152, 158, 159 ; 
selfishness, 165, 166 ; sensibility, morbid, 157, 158, 159 ; sing- 
ing, 152, 157, 158 ; Sloperton, home at, 159, 160 ; society, 
craving for, 154, 155, 166— demeanor in, 150-153, 157, 158, 
164; " Tommy loves a lord," 155 ; vanity, 155, 156; voice, 
150, 152; wit, 149, 151, 161, 165 ; work, methods of, 159, 160. 

Pebl, Sir Robert, adventure at Harrow. 11. 

Rogers, Samuel. 167-192. 

Appearance, 173-175 ; art, appreciation of, 178, 179 ; artists, 
patronage of, 179 ; Campbell, kindness to, 190 ; children, 
love of, 188, 189; chronological table, 171; composition, 
difficulty in, 180 ; conversation, 175-177, 181-185 ; cruelty, 
183-185, 187 ; " Curzon, Miss, and the Hon. Cl^arles Town- 
shend," 177; cynicism, 183, 190; "death-dandy," 173; 
Dickens's imitation of Rogers, 169, 176, 177 ; economy, 179 ; 
fastidiousness, 179, 180, 185 ; flattery, 183, 188 ; generosity, 
183, 186, 188, 189-191 ; hardiness, 177, 178 ; hospitality, a 
breach of, 182; humor, 181, 182, 186; insincerity, 182, 183, 
185, 188; "Italy," anecdote of the printing of, 179, 180; 



320 INDEX. 

Rogers, Samuel. — Continued. 

Johnson, Samuel, a visit to, 169 ; kindness, 189-192 ; lan- 
guage, choice selection of, 175, 176, 180 ; leading events of 
his life, 171 ; malignity, 182-188 ; music, 180 ; nature, love 
of, 178 ; nightingales, kept in the house, 181 ; organ-grinders, 
liking for, 180 ; out-of-doors life, 177, 178 ; pedestrianism, 

177, 178 ; politics, 170 ; proof-correction, scrupulous nicety 
in, 179, 180 ; public speaking, incapacity for, 187 ; quoted, 

178, 181, 182, 184-186, 188, 189 ; religious views, 170 ; rude- 
ness, 184, 185 ; society, demeanor in, 175, 181-185, 187, 188 ; 
story-telling, 175-177, 185 ; taste, 178, 179 ; walking, 177, 
178 ; wit, 181, 182, 186 ; work, 180, 185 ; youth, anecdote of, 
169. 

Shelley, Mary W., 79, 80, 122, 127. 

Shelley, Percy Bysshe. 73-140. 

Absent-mindedness, iii ; affectionateness, 86, 107, 133, 138, 139; 
aggressiveness, 125, 126 ; alcoholic stimulants, 99, 135 ; 
amusements, 81, 82, 98, 101-107, 138 ; appearance, 86-94, 
125, 133, 134 ; argument, excellence in, 131 ; arrogance, 125 ; 
awkwardness and grace, 98 ; boating, 86, 97, 98, and note, 
138 ; bores, dread of, 127 ; boyhood, 81-87 ; bread, fondness 
for, 100-102 ; Byron, intercourse with, 52, 55, 96, 135 ; caring 
for the sick, 139, 140 ; chemistry, 82, 83, 102, 103 ; Christian- 
ity, opinion of, 96, 126, and note, 132 ; chronological table, 
79 ; Church, thoughts of entering the, 132 ; comedy, opin- 
ion of, 125 ; contradictions of character explained, 140; con- 
versation, 85, 102, 107, no, 121, 122, 123, 125, 127, 128, 130, 
131, 132; danger, disregard for, 107, 108 ; delicacy of mind, 
116 ; diet, 99, 100-102, 135 ; dress, 87, 88, 92, 134 ; Edin- 
burgh, at church in, 116; " elephantiasis," 111-114; Eton, a 
fight at, 83 — life at, 83-86, 98, 102 ; extempore rhyming, 124 ; 
family life, 105, 122, 127, 134 ; Field Place, life at, 81-83 '* 
"frightful creatures," a game with a boy, 105 ; generosity, 
136-139 ; ghosts, watching for, 83 ; grace and awkwardness, 
98 ; Great Marlow, life at, 134 ; hallucinations, 111-114 ; 
Hampstead, the poor woman at, 139 ; head, treatment of, 
92, 109, and note; hypochondria, 111-114 ; indignation at 
coarseness, 116 ; "lapping up the blood of the slain," loi ; 
leading events of his life, 79 ; music, 96, 137 ; mysterious, 
love of the, 82, 83, 85, 130 ; napping on the hearth, 109 ; 
national affairs, interest in, 128 ; near-sightedness, 91 ; 



INDEX. 321 



Shelley, Percy Bysshe. — Continued. 

opium, 99, atid note; out-of-doors life, 105, 106, 121-124 ; 
Oxford, life at, 102, 109 ; panada, loi ; paper-boat naviga- 
tion, 103 ; pawns his microscope, 137 ; Pisa, life at, 120-123, 
133, 135 ; pistol-practice, 106, 107 ; Plato, effect of reading, 
130 ; playfulness, 82, 105, 106, 122 ; politics, 128, 129 ; practi- 
cal efficiency, 139, 140 ; pre-existence, study of, 130 ; pugilism 
at Eton, 83 ; prussic acid, 108 ; quoted, 27, -^^ly 96. 107, 108, 
119-128, 130-134, 241, 242 ; rambling, love of, 85, 106 ; read- 
ing, 117-120, 135, 136 ; school-days, 83-86 ; " School for 
Scandal." opinion of, 125; sensitiveness, 114, 115 ; shooting 
at a mark, 106, 107 ; shyness, 85, 86, 115, 127 ; sincerity, 
115; singing, 82, 97, and note; " singit heed and bon- 
nocks," 115; sleep, 109, no; "Snake, The," 62, 63; so- 
ciety, demeanor in, 85, 99, loi, 112, 115, 125-127, 131, 133 — 
dread of, 122, 127 ; solitude, love of, 85, 86, 121-123, 136 ; som- 
nambulism, no; Southey and Shelley, their opinions of 
each other, 125, 241-244 ; Southey, intercourse with, 240-244 — 
resemblance to, 125 ; strength, physical, 97 ; studiousness, 
117-120, 135 ; swimming, an experiment in, 107 ; temper, 
82, 96, 115, 125, 126, 131 ; tobacco, 99 ; "tortoise, the great," 
82; unselfishness, 107, 136-140; vegetarianism, 99; vision, 
a, 114 ; voice, 94-96, 126 ; wit, 105 ; Wordsworth, opinion 
of, 125 ; work, methods of, 117-120, 121, 123, 124, 134-136. 

Smith, Sydney, sayings of, 173, 174. 

Southey, Robert. 209-247. 

Alcoholic stimulants, 230, 233 ; appearance, 218-222, 225, 237- 
239 ; argument, dislike for, 225, 242 ; books, a houseful of, 
228, 241-242 — rather than clothes, 233 — wholly absorbed in, 
234 ; cats, fondness for, 236 ; childhood, 217 ; chronological 
table, 214 ; conversation, 221, 223, 226, 242 ; cruelty, abhor- 
rence of, 246; De Quincey, rage against, 237; domesticity, 
229-231, 252 ; dress, 218, 219, 233 ; excitability, 224, 225, 237- 
240, 246 ; family life, 229-231 ; friendliness, 225-227, 235, 
236, 245, 246 ; generosity, 244-246 ; handwriting, 232 ; Kes- 
wick, life at, 228-235 ; indignation, exhibition of, 237-239, 246 ; 
I.andor, contrasted with Southey, 251 — generous offer ot, 
292— intimacy with, 251, 292 ; leading events of his life, 214 ; 
literature, devotion to, 211, 230-234; music, no ear for, 244 ; 
out-of-doors life, 234, 235 ; Oxford, life at, 218, 258, 259 ; 
pedestrianism, 234, 235 ; playfulness, 235, 236, 246 ; politics, 



322 INDEX. 



Southey, Robert. — Continued. 

212, 213, 218, 252, 258 ; precocity, 217 ; public speaking, in- 
capacity for, 228 ; quoted, 211, 212, 227-239, 243, 259, 292, 
294 ; reading, 217, 231, 233, 235 ; regularity, 223, 229-233, 
239 ; religious views, 212 ; reserve, 226-228 ; routine, care- 
ful observance of, 229-233, 239 ; " Rumpelstiltzchen," death 
of, 236 ; self-consciousness, 240 ; self-control, 239 ; Shelley 
and Southey, their opinions of each other, 125, 241-244; 
Shelley, intercourse with, 241-244 ; shyness, 227, 228, 
240; social character, 212, 223, 225-228, 235-239; society, 
demeanor in, 223-226, 237-239, 246 ; temper, 225, 237-240, 
246, 247 ; voice, 224 ; walking, 234, 235 ; Westminster, ex- 
pelled from, 218 ; work, methods of, 229, 231-233 ; youth, 
218. 

Swift, William, bootmaker, his account of Byron's lameness, 21. 
Thorwaldsen, his account of Byron's sitting for a statue, 39. 
West, W. E. , his account of Byron's sitting for a portrait, 39. 
Wordsworth, William, appearance, 218. 



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